Book One: Struggle
by Monki-Neko
Summary: Independent Harry. Abusive!Dursleys. This is about finding out who you are and how far you'll go to survive. Its about a friendship that defines and changes you. Its about life-and what it means to live.
1. I am Boy

Summary: _Harry Potter never existed, not as he was written in the history books or percieved by the Wizarding World: He is nothing like what his Aunt Petunia claims he is—criminal, delinquent, ungrateful—but who would believe him? He was raised as a servant and treated as one, tolerated only for his domestic skills and as a convenient outlet for an easily angered man. He bears the consequence for the sins of his mother his aunt has decided to make him pay in blood, and imagined or not, whether she is simply doing so out of spite or enjoyment—all he knows is pain, pain, pain. _

_Hate is all he expects of the world and so far, his experiences have shown him no evidence to the contrary. He has learned control, he has learned to endure and now he must learn to survive, once again, the dangers of a world that does not care to know him, only use him for its own ends. But what does he care? Only to live and maybe, maybe have his vengeance one day when he is free and safe and **powerful**. _

_What does it matter that this new world is of magic? People are the same everywhere: greedy, cruel and untrustworthy. He will do as he has always done and survive. He will find a way through and if that way does not yet exist, he will make one, damn the "rules". Rules are nothing more than guideines, the "supposed-to", but no one follows them all the time or care to if it means it gets in thier way. Uncle Vernon didn't seem to, after all._

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><p><span>Warning<span>: This is not the same Harry, found in canon, that was able to forgive the Dursleys for thier behaviour or the Headmaster for placing him there with practically no supervision. He will hate and even kill. We will see the rise of a Harry who truly embodies qualities the House of Slytherin would approve of.

The only question being, however, if he even has an ambition to work toward?

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><p><em>If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?<em>

_~Shylock, "The Merchant of Venice", (Act III, scene I)_

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><p>Book One: Struggle<p>

-I am Boy

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><p>Chapter Summary: Who is Boy?<p>

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><p>3 sandwiches and 1 glass of water—that's how long it's been since Boy was allowed outside. His tummy growls and he has to go to the loo.<p>

But Boy was bad and a Freak, and Freaks like him don't get to eat like Dudley who was a Good Boy even though he broke everything and stomped all over Aunt Petunia's prize-winning roses.

He didn't mean to turn Miss Walker's wig blue. She was just teaching them how to add when she turned toward the windows and shrieked. It was brown then it was blue and she reached up and it slipped and—

It just happened. He didn't know how….though he did feel hungry and wanted to get in line before Dudley did or else there'd be nothing left for him, and she just had to point out the sellotape keeping his glasses together, and maybe that had made him a bit angry.

Still.

He had no idea how it happened. There was no logical reasoning, except maybe, magi—but no, there's no such thing and he knows better than to even think of it.

So.

But obviously the Boy had something to do with it; Uncle Vernon always said that his Freakishness would ruin everything one day. And it did.

Now he couldn't make breakfast or scrub the floors do anything else that Freaks were supposed to do! Now Aunt Petunia had to his job because Uncle Vernon said HE HAD TO LEARN HIS LESSON or he would grow up to be a LAZY, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING SLOB like his father. He doesn't know what that means but it sounds bad and he doesn't want to be bad; He's already a Freak.

* * *

><p>In school, he learns what a name is.<p>

He knows what he's called and what he is: Boy, Freak, Orphan, but his _name _is Harry Potter. He doesn't know why he has two names but Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia and Dudley have two names, too. It's strange though, for a Freak like him to have something NORMAL.

It doesn't feel right.

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><p>He doesn't know if it's alright for a Freak like him to have friends but outside the classroom, you're <em>supposed<em> to play. But Uncle Vernon is right; no one wants to be friends with a Freak.

It's nothing new though. He finds the Library on his third day at school. Its quiet and no one cares if you're a Freak, as long as you have a book in hand. And Harry, that's his _name_, you know, _likes_ to read. It's the one thing Dudley didn't like or want—He even threw a book at Harry once!—and so it's one of the only things Dudley couldn't take from him or break.

Harry—Boy—Freak—never had anything of his own before.

He doesn't know if he could give this up even _if_ Uncle Vernon found out about this.

* * *

><p>He was only allowed to do all the things only Normal kids do—that is, learning to read and write and stuff, because Aunt Petunia told him that if he wasn't at school, SOMEONE would ask questions and then SOCIAL WORKERS would come and take him to an ORPHANAGE.<p>

Aunt Petunia said it's a bad place where you never get enough food to eat even if you do all your chores, but the Dursleys did that too sometimes. And other things that made him think, just a little, that it might not be so bad if there's not much difference between the ORPHANAGE and the Dursleys.

"Boy!" Uncle Vernon roared. "You clean up Dudley's room, good, you hear? If you don't…." He trailed off ominously, his hands clenching into tight fists that Boy knew desperately wanted to grip him firmly about the neck and squeeze and squeeze and _squeeze_ until—

Yes, not bad at all.

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><p>He learns to count at school, so he now knows he was 5 years old the first time Uncle Vernon touched him <em>there<em>.

It hurt but he knew better than to cry or beg; Boy was already going over what he needed in his head for After, the pills in the medicine cabinet upstairs and the antibiotic cream hidden under one of the floorboards in his cupboard. Boy had learned fast and good, how to make the hurt go away. And he could tell this was the kind of hurt you had to ignore-play pretend and think you're somewhere else. He knew it wouldn't be the last time Uncle Vernon hurt him like that but it'll be alright.

All he has to do is survive.

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><p>AN: For the most part, this story will focus on Harry, but that's really to establish his chillhood (ie. frame of reference) and the person he's developing into. He is more aware of his surroudings and the darker side of people than most children' his age because of his homelife and also the way the people in his life have so far treated him, so don't expect an innocent little boy—this Harry is nothing like that. At all.<p>

Let me say this: books are his only "friends" (read: tools) and he is nothing, if not resourceful and cunning, so he will be more mature than most people will expect (think Hermione), but the knowledge he gains is not for any thirst for it, but as handy weapons to wield against enemies who will be more advance, magically, than he.

The P.O.V. (point of view for the uninititated into fandom or general literature) may change from either these two characters to various figures of authority, including policemen, social workers, teachers, other children, etc. briefly. You will also find a gradual change in Harry's way of thinking regarding the Dursleys, their treatment of him, the willful indifference of the neighbors and some tentative beliefs about "friendship" and "love" arise from his experiences with others and the world.

**NOTE**: For those who've read this story already, here's the revised first chapter—not very different at all from before, no rewriting involved at all—but it's more cohesive, I think and I took the advice of several people who've commented that perhaps, the story would have been better served if the first five chapters (written in one-shot style, after my faveorite author: forthright and her story: Lord Charming) were placed into one chapter instead. Just to let you all know, it's a thought I've had before, but there simply wasn't enough of the story written yet to have warranted me to take such an action, as I thought it was just fine as it was, regardless. And let me say now that if, from this moment on, you are presented with another short chapter such as you've read before in this story, then it is simply me offering you [the readers] something to tide you over as I work on the larger (and whole) piece. After which I've finished, I will then merge them together and you will have your desired lengthier piece.

Also, you all should know that I'm working on two other fanfics simultaneously, one of which is in the same 'verse as this one and the other is a crossover (so yea, lots of work), plus an original piece I must finish in the next few weeks for an English project. So please, take pity on me and don't complain about the length of the chapters—I already know that very well, thank you—and please only offer me constructive criticism or unalduterated praise. Thanks.


	2. letter: unbirthday party

_Dear Nobody,_

_Today was my Un-birthday Party. That's what I call it because it's not really a day to celebrate my birth, not to mention that the Dursleys never bothered to have a party for the likes of me before. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, especially, felt that they had more than done their familial duty to me by providing a roof over my head (that is to say, the roof of the cupboard under the stairs); clothes (Dudley's castaways, of course); and food (only table scraps for the Freak, usually a slice of toast and a glass of water, sometimes I get bits of rasher if I can sneak it off Dudley's plate)._

_They treated me the same as every other day; they let me out to make breakfast, for which they'd criticize but still stuff into their mouths, the goddamn hypocrites; I'd do some chores before school and spend the whole day trying to hide/run from Dudley and his friends, which they lovingly called 'Harry Hunting'; more chores afterschool and dinner; then there was the much anticipated—I do hope you can recognize sarcasm—and highly dubious 'present' of a pair of Dudley's old Gym socks and a pence. I'd thank them for the _wonderful_ present, of course._

_If I didn't, the birthday punches would be more like a pounding. As it was, I could never completely regain the use of my right arm even the next day. Which did not endear me to them at all, as my eggs always came out a bit burnt the morning after. _

_And that's it. Well, except for _that_. But that only happened if Uncle Vernon had had a particularly bad holiday weekend at Grunnings and drank too much. Then…well, it's a good thing I'm a Freak, otherwise I'd most likely not survive the night—bleeding to death, you know.  
><em>

_From the Freak, sometimes called Boy whose name is Harry_

_#4 Privet Drive, Surrey_

_Cupboard under the Stairs_

_31__st__ of July, 1988_

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><p>AN: So, for a 'lil bit I'm probably gonna be writing in this format, closely mimicking a diary or letter. This is to speed up the pace somewhat and to gain insight into his character and the gradual change in his mindset. You should already be able to tell by now that he is old enough to realize the Dursleys are not as 'Normal' as he has been taught they are; he knows they are cruel and even admits that an Orphanage might not be so bad if it's no better than his current living situation. And, you can see hints of considering that perhaps it is the other way around, that perhaps, it is they who are the true 'Freaks' and not him.<p> 


	3. letter: magic

_Dear Nobody,_

_I never believed in anything I couldn't touch or see and test thoroughly myself. It might seem a bit excessive but if I've learned anything from the Dursleys, besides how to take a beating or be a proper housewife, it's not to take anything at face value. Life in the Dursley household taught me to be sure of the fine print before I agree to anything; to always have a plan for my back-up plan; to have an escape ready at any moment but most importantly, to know better than to fight a losing battle._

_So when my Aunt and Uncle showed every sign of hating Magic, going so far as to ban all forms of entertainment related to it and even denying Dudley a magician at every one of his birthday parties, no matter how much he whined and threw tantrums…Well, it was damn obvious to me that that was one thing they would never change their minds on._

_This is why I made it a point never to mention those occasional incidents of what could only be called 'magic', though it wasn't always easy or even possible to keep the Dursleys from finding out about them. They certainly punished me when the school called Aunt Petunia and told her I had somehow climbed on top the school roof or the time she tried to get me into a horrible, pink sweater and it shrunk to the size of a doll's. Times where I lost control and _things_ just happened. _

_But they didn't know everything; they didn't know about the field trip to the zoo where I discovered I could speak to snakes and set a boa constrictor free. They didn't know about all the times I would sneak out and make a sandwich for myself when the hunger was threatening to overwhelm me, and the lock on my cupboard door would somehow unlock itself. And they certainly didn't know about the books hidden in the school library that only I could see—_magic_ books. _

_So I never said a word. I never asked why they hated magic so much or why I had it. I just knew that they could never know and that I could never admit that I was a—was a what?—I don't even know, only that it's not Normal. Only, that I'm even more of a Freak than I thought I was. _

_From the Freak, sometimes called Boy, whose name happens to be Harry_

_#4 Privet Drive, Surrey_

_Cupboard under the Stairs_

_14__th__ of December, 1988 _


	4. letter: the library

_Dear Nobody,_

_The Library, by which I mean the public library, meant many things to me; it was a sanctuary guarded by a fierce librarian who tolerated no one and nothing and especially despised Dudley, who made it a point to make a mess of things. It was a teacher who taught me many things about the world around me and the people in it without bothering with things like my being too young or 'innocent'—a laughable concept for the way I've been raised. I learned things in class, of course, like reading and math but the Library taught me about the Civil Wars that tore Britain apart and the Second World War that almost destroyed it. But most importantly, I learned about something called 'child abuse'._

_One would think with all the time I'd spent in there, I would have come across it sooner but it was only near the end of my second year as a Primary student that I found a book entitled __The Drama of the Gifted Child__ by Alice Miller. The title was misleading; it was not at all about the hardships of a child with genius IQ but about children who were abused by their parents or guardians. _

_Once I realized what it was, I had an almost unbearable urge to put it back and forget all about it. But an even greater instinct compelled me to read it. I had heard the term before but never really understood the concept very much. I never really considered, or more truthfully, wanted to consider myself to be abused._

_One time on the news, I had heard about a girl a little younger than me who had been kept locked up in her family's basement since she was born. When they finally found her, she had been 'feral', which I found out meant that she couldn't speak or even think like a human at all. I've heard or read about other cases of 'abuse'—a child thrown out the window; another raped and left for dead…_

_I suppose it was the 'victim' part that left me disinclined to consider myself abused._

_No matter how the Dursleys have treated me, Uncle Vernon in particular, they have never tried to kill me. Intentionally, at least. I didn't always have enough to eat and I wish I had better clothes to wear than Dudley's cast-offs, but I _was_ fed, a roof over my head, rickety though it was, and _something_ to wear, which is more that I can say about some people. _

_I did feel much validated, however, by the author's belief that it was never the child's fault, but the parents or guardians'. So I decided that it wouldn't hurt me to read it and just couldn't put it down. I didn't realize until I had turned the next page, only to find none that I had finished the entire thing. And I had realized one important thing, for which I will always be grateful to the library and most especially that book for, that it was the _Dursleys_ who were the Freaks—not him!_

_He had never felt so happy.  
><em>

_From the Freak, sometimes called Boy, whose name happens to be Harry_

_#4 Privet Drive, Surrey_

_Cupboard under the Stairs_

_5__th__ of April, 1989_

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><p>AN: We will see how Petunia reacts to her husband's illicit 'activities' with the boy. Caution: may make readers hate her even more for her actions. Hope for dursley, or more specifically, dursley-fans, Petunia and Dudley will be somewhat humanized in an upcoming 'child abuse' trial that comes up much, much later. After his and Hermione's encounter and her subsequent kidnapping.<p>

I've realized that no matter how much time passes, a child of abuse will always fear their abuser to a certain extent, whatever therapy, closure or friends they've gained. Because you never forget the one(s) who hurt you.


	5. Miss Charlene Smith

_I'm worried._

_I've gotten used to dealing with the beatings and the missed meals, the fact that I have to deliberately get a lower score than Dudley in school, let everyone think that I really am an ungrateful, criminal-minded boy that the Dursleys had taken in out of the 'kindness of their hearts' and suffered dutifully but—_

_There's a new nurse at school, Miss Smith, who Uncle Vernon had yet to bribe and/or threaten or for Aunt Petunia to have spoken a great length about her 'delinquent' nephew. She was one of those very kind-hearted people who cared for every little stray that crossed her path and did not belong in a neighborhood that didn't care for anyone at all, like Little Winging. I knew if she found out how the Dursleys really treated me, aside from being completely apathetic about my schoolwork and 'attitude' that she would report them to the authorities immediately._

_Not that the local bobbies would do anything about such a complaint, rather than 'have a little talk' with her about how things were around here, seeing as how Uncle Vernon made it a point to pay anyone with any amount of authority or influence to their noses out of his business. 'Family matters', he liked to call it._

_Anyhow, she had noticed that my supposed 'attitude' about schoolwork and my actual intelligence were drastically different, and though she probably allowed for a certain amount of leeway for a school-boy of my age, it more than likely occurred to her that there was something wrong. Her suspicions were no doubt encouraged when she caught me with pants down, figuratively; Uncle Vernon had had a bad day at work, had gone drinking afterwards and, as usual, took it out on me._

_Oh, he made sure not to bruise me on the face or anywhere they would show easily, of course, but viciously struck his fists against my chest. I was careless; in a hurry, I had went into the bathroom before checking every stall and locking the door like I usually did and was so focused on making sure the blood wasn't through the bandages that I never noticed her following me or the door opening quietly behind me._

_How stupid of me. A mistake I would never make again but it was too late. She had seen and exclaimed, "God Almighty, you poor dear!" before bustling me to the Nurse's Office where she ignored all my excuses and ordered me to strip, sit down and let her do her job, dammit!_

_She was strictly professional, going over every inch of my body and either grudgingly approving my own efforts at mending myself or tsking and re-doing them properly. I would have tried to simply run but that would have made a bad situation even worse; I already knew an administrator would know and tell Uncle Vernon at the very least, I didn't want the police to get involved._

_I noticed that she had written down something in an official-looking paper and knew it described all the bruises and cuts I had. I was ready to snatch it and destroy it when she wasn't looking, so there wouldn't be any evidence of my 'Freakishness' as the Dursleys would say but she seemed to know what I was thinking and locked it in the filing cabinet. The one with the heavy metal lock that even my 'magic' had a hard time opening. There was no way I would be able to get to it, now, not without being caught._

_Then she turned to me and began the interrogation._

_I didn't say a word, no matter how much she pleaded, cajoled and threatened me—the Dursleys had threatened me with everything under the sun and her threats lacked a certain edge that meant she was serious about following through on them. Eventually, she gave up and let me go. I was surprised, however, when she gave me a hurriedly put-together package of medical supplies, a scrap of paper with her name and number scrawled across it, and a promise that I could come to her whenever I needed help. I'm not sure I entirely believed her but I promised, making sure to cross my toes—I wasn't lying exactly, I just knew I never could—knowing she wouldn't let me leave otherwise._

_I know she went to the Headmaster straight away and I followed her as quietly as I could, years of experience trying not to be noticed helping me, and listened to the ensuing conversation. There was a lot of yelling and curses involved, mostly from the nurse and then a deafening silence. A few minutes later she stormed out the door to the Headmaster's Office, angrily muttering under her breath. I was able to catch a few words like 'ingrate', 'pathetic' and 'coward'. And the barest shred of hope that I hadn't realized I'd had of someone finding out about the Dursleys and the way they treated me, and actually doing something about it, as if I was worth fighting for—died._

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><p>Miss Charlene Smith was not someone to shy away from a child in need, no matter how obstinate that pathetic excuse for a human being she left behind in his plush office, which he had no right to waste school funds on, or the threats he made. Just try and stop her!<p>

She didn't much care for this 'Vernon Dursley', if he really was Mister Potter's guardian. She had a lot she wanted to say to him and maybe she wanted to beat _his_ face to a bloody pulp just a little. All she could remember was that poor child's body; the scars and bruises, years old and days fresh; the thinness—how she could count each and every bone that stuck sharply against his skin; the horrible glasses he'd worn, falling apart, barely held together by sellotape, because it seemed they couldn't even spare some money to pay for a decent pair or even the correct prescription; and worst of all, the evidence she found of internal bleeding in his rectum.

She had almost regurgitated her lunch back up when she realized that the only thing which could have caused such damage in that particular area was sexual assault. Someone had raped that child and done it more than once on an almost regular occurrence, going by the scar tissue she had examined. She hissed. _'Monsters!'_

And no one else did anything to help him. She knew that they knew damn well what was going on in that house, maybe they didn't know the extent of the abuse, but they knew about it. That should have been enough but they hadn't said a word for _years_ before she was hired.

It was much later that she found herself at home, sitting in the dark with only the moonlight to see by, clutching several papers in one hand and a glass of chardonnay in the other. The local school board and PTA had ignored her, saying that 'family matters' were none of their business; the Headmaster threatened to fire her; 'Uncle Vernon' had had a talk with her, leaving her with a black eye and split lip—he seemed to think that a punch to the face would help persuade her; and even the police had entered her house with some feeble excuse that she was accused of selling drugs to the children, ransacking her home and destroying every piece of paper they could find.

She knew what they looking for, of course, the record she had made of Mister Potter's injuries with her recommendation that he be removed from his current place of residence, signed and authorized as a school official and registered nurse. They had already destroyed the copy she had locked in her office and probably wanted to make sure that she didn't have another one stashed away at her home. She did and luckily they would never find it, hidden behind a false wall in a safe with an electric lock—having her house broken into more than once had made her a bit paranoid. Good thing it was, too, otherwise she'd have no evidence at all.

The glass of wine in her hand shattered under the force of her frustration. She ignored the blood that ran down her hand and the bits of glass sticking out of her skin as she picked up the phone next her and dialed a familiar number. She waited patiently for it to ring and spoke in a calm voice, though she was anything but calm inside.

"Harold? It's me, Charlene. I have a favor to ask of you. I need you help…" She spent the rest of the night and part of the morning speaking with him, strategizing, assuring him she would be fine, she knew how to fix a black eye, and building the foundation of a case that she would eventually present to the courts—if she had to, she would go all the way to the Crown Court and if possible, the High Court.

She'd let them all think she'd backed off, that they'd scared her, but one day she would hold every one of them accountable for their neglect. She swore that one day, Harry James Potter would be free of the Dursleys; she'd make sure of it. For now, if all she could do was supply him with bandages and teach him how to properly set broken bones or prevent an infection, it would be enough.

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><p><em>I know Uncle Vernon had a 'talk' with Miss Smith; I saw the shiner she came to school with today, even under the make-up. She was just another in a long line of people who sometimes noticed and made a bother of themselves for the community before they were silenced. They usually moved away, ignored him like the plague, or if they continued to be trouble, had a visit from the local police and never heard a word from them again. A few days went by and all was back to normal when I was in my cupboard getting ready to sleep for the night and found something stashed in my backpack. I used what little light there was from under the door and was shocked by what I read. It said:<em>

'_Harry, I'm sorry I haven't spoken to you in the last few days but I had to make sure no one would suspect. You probably saw the black eye I sported Monday morning, didn't you? Your 'Uncle Vernon'—despicable man he is—had a 'talk' with me. It seems we are going to have to agree to disagree. Know that I am not giving up on you but understand completely if you're too scared to do anything. I just want you to know that I really meant what I said the other day; you're welcome in my office at any time, just to talk to someone or if you're running low on bandages and the like. I would suggest you see me early before school or afterschool—l could pick you up in my car straight from school and take you somewhere we can talk without fear. Just make sure to call, first. I'll be in every morning at 5:30. Never give up._

_-Charlene Smith_

_I avoided her for weeks after that but I could never forget what it said and finally, I showed up in her office early one morning. I was there before she had even arrived and she found me sitting curled up outside her door, shivering from the cold in a thin shirt and ragged jeans. _

_She just let me in and patched me up, all the while quietly explaining how to properly do this and that. She didn't ask me how I got the bruises or who gave them to me. She never once looked at me with pity, but she never smiled quite right after the first time she had me over for tea without sadness in her eyes._

_I wasn't planning on meeting her all that often but gradually I started coming over just to talk with her about things sometimes. Never about what the Dursleys were like, of course, but what subjects I liked best, what kinds of food were my favorite—Normal things. We became sort of friends and I even called her 'mum' in my head a few times._

_She's probably the only person who cares whether I live or die. Once, I asked her why she was bothering at all when I was in a particularly sullen mood. She just looked at me and said, "Because you're worth it."_

_From the Freak, sometimes called Boy, whose name happens to be Harry_

_#4 Privet Drive, Surrey_

_Cupboard under the Stairs_

_16__th__ of January, 1990_

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><p>AN: Harry is feeling his first instance of kindess from an adult. This nurse is important because she'll make a return appearance later on in the court battle and in further interactions with Harry. She will be one of the most important witnesses, as someone who had first hand experience, built up much of the case and is considered medical authority as a registered nurse.<p> 


	6. Secret No More

When she got the call from the school about the Freak causing trouble she wasn't surprised but she was irritated to have her weekly lunch with the other neighborhood wives interrupted. When the nurse stepped in her way and _manhandled_ her into her office, she was miffed. She listened to her babble on and on about this many bruises and 'did you know that your husband was…?' and, of course she knew but pretended ignorance for appearance's sake. Something like this happened every once in a while, someone would see and make some noise but Vernon made sure the problem go away.

Then she said the Freak was raped.

For the first time during the whole conversation, Petunia gave her, her full and undivided attention; she listened grimly as the nurse talked about internal bleeding, evidence of it going on for _years_, that there was really only one person who not only had access to the boy but the right equipment for it, unless there was something about her son that she didn't know about…?

She only allowed herself to think about the possibility for a second, before she determinedly shoved away such traitorous thoughts and focused on the problem at hand. The nurse would be a problem but Vernon would take care of it, he always did. No, the bigger problem was that she couldn't allow the abuse to go on anymore; she had permitted it, fearing if he didn't have some kind of outlet that he would turn to her or Dudley. She knew Dudley had angered him once and paid the price for it. She had thought, better the Freak than us—he deserved it for being like her sister, as pretty and smart and born with _magic_.

But this, this was unacceptable. She could and did tolerate his beating the boy, she had done so, herself, at times but this was—perverted, disgusting, and sinful! She would have to take care of this herself. She could not allow such a thing to happen in her household; what would the other housewives say if they found out? Not that they ever would.

She carefully looked over the records the nurse had taken, skipping all the medical jargon and the notes on what she already knew about. Near the end, she found what she was looking for; words like 'internal bleeding', 'tearing of the anus', and most damning of them all: 'scar tissue indicative of multiple occurrences'. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands against them, whispering words of prayer from a half-remembered Sunday school lesson.

'_May the Lord give me strength…'_

Yes, she would have to deal with this herself. Vernon could never know that she knew, or that the nurse held knowledge of the extent of the abuse—he would certainly kill Miss Smith and perhaps, make sure that Petunia couldn't ever speak about it either, if she had the thought to. Which she never would, but he would never allow the possibility to exist. No, she would tell him that someone had been asking questions about the Freak and generally being a nuisance, and let him take care of it the usual way. She would speak with the Headmaster, herself, to ensure that no record remained and even contact the police officers under Vernon's thumb, though, as a rule, that was his chore. No matter, if she had to deal with those pigs she would.

She would contact the other members of the PTA and local school board to inform them of her suspicions about the new nurse; she had seen Miss Smith handing a package to Dudley's friend, Pierce Polkiss, in exchange for some bills. And it was certainly true, she knew the boy was high most of the time and his mother despaired of it. Mrs. Polkiss would be glad enough to have someone to blame besides her own poor skills as a mother; what did it matter if Petunia made it up?

And the boy most certainly had to go.

* * *

><p>Boy was nervous.<p>

After the humiliating experience of being physically examined by the nurse and getting home, only to be harshly scolded by his Aunt for his stupidity, he was glad to be shut in his cupboard. He still had to look more closely at the package the nurse had given him. Opening the brown paper bag that smelled slightly of egg salad—the one she brought her own lunch in—he found a roll of clean bandages, several different types of creams, a bottle of rubbing alcohol and Tylenol.

He ignored the scrap of paper with her name and number on it; another had once done the same but had clearly never expected him to actually call. Boy had hung up before the teacher could finish explaining to him that he wanted to help, he really did but couldn't. He knew lies when he heard it.

But for some reason he didn't want to examine too closely, he didn't throw it away but carefully tucked it away for safe-keeping under the loose floorboard between a faded paperback Dudley had thrown away and small bag of spare change he'd earned from old Ms. Figg, feeding her cats when she was gone.

He was let out to cook dinner and kept out of Vernon's way, relieved to be locked safely in the cupboard when the fight began. There was a lot of yelling, just like between the nurse and the headmaster but there were also the sounds of furniture breaking, too.

He was sure to be blamed for it, even though he clearly had nothing to do it but he was just a Freak in their eyes.

Familiar footsteps stomped toward the cupboard and the door rattled as Uncle Vernon pounded his fists against it, cursing him. For terrified moments, Boy thought the older man would rip the door off its hinges as it creaked in protest under his anger; he pressed himself against the furthest wall and prayed to a god he didn't believe in.

He let out a shaky breath as he slid to the ground in a trembling heap. He clutched a faded blue cloth in his hands, apparently the baby blanket he had been wrapped in when he was left on their doorstep so many years ago. He fell asleep curled up in it, the only thing of his parents he had.

* * *

><p>Petunia lay awake next to her husband—what a joke; he was the only man who had even looked at her—as she thought about the boy sleeping in the cupboard downstairs.<p>

She had hoped to have him out of the house by tonight, with vague plans of leaving him at some random orphanage and telling Vernon he had stolen some food and money. That he had ran away. She would leave with Dudley sometime in the dead of night soon afterwards and send him his divorce papers from another country, not having to see him except to sign the papers.

But two things stopped her: 1) the Freaks would find out and 2) she had no good plan.

They would bring the boy back to her home—put some _spell_ on her and make her forget. She had to be careful and take her time; make sure every detail, loophole and consequence was accounted for. She didn't want to be free of Vernon and the Freak only to be coerced to take them back in by magic or law.

So she would wait until the time was right, making plans in secret and starting on the paperwork, discreetly contact some of the orphanages nearby and try to exploit some weakness in the blood-wards that old man had bound her to this place and child with. She knew Dumbledore hadn't told her everything; he thought she was stupid, or most likely, that as a 'muggle' wouldn't understand. She snorted. What a fool. You don't need to understand something in order to use it; he only had to figure out how to extricate herself from the blood-wards, while leaving it intact and without alerting him. Already she had some ideas how, time and information being her only obstacles but she would find a way. She always did.

All she had to do was be patient.

* * *

><p>AN: Should i give her a lighter sentence or a harsher one? She's only been verbally abusive except for the few times she's hit him over the head with a frying pan-not that that doesn't hurt. Ouch!<p> 


	7. Petunia's Plan

It had been a long and stressful year, trying to move her plans along without either Vernon or Dumbledore knowing.

She had met with a lawyer in the city known for his discreet services, who would ensure a speedy divorce. She was pleasantly surprised when she was informed that he would be able to file the paperwork for change of guardianship, change of citizenship and custody of her son for an extra fee. Apparently he had connections with other agencies and persons to speed up the process.

It was harder to find someone to help her with the magic side of the matter but she lucked out; she had received some money and a lot of junk from her parent's in their will, including Lily's school things. She searched for a pamphlet she had once seen Lily read over and over, along with her textbooks, the summer before the school year began. It was an introductory pamphlet that introduced the muggleborns students and their parents to the Wizarding world. What was it called again…?

'_A History of Magic or Advanced Runes Made Easy? No…Beginner's Guide to Transfigurations…What you need to know—yes!'_

Petunia eagerly read the information within it and planned accordingly; apparently there was a Ministry that governed their world and dealt with all matters of law, including cases of guardianship and though it wasn't said outright, generally it seemed that they prefer for the Freaks to live in their world. Even when she read between the lines and found that they looked down on 'muggleborn' children and would rather place them in their version of an orphanage than actually have a 'pureblood' family take them in. She didn't really care where they put him, so long as they took him off her hands and let them handle all issues of guardianship. More importantly, it seemed that a division within this Ministry called the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts deal primarily with any and all people, places and things that had been spelled by Freaks to have dangerous or mischievous effects.

She was unsure at first when it didn't seem to be general operating procedure for a 'muggle' to get in contact with them and would rather keep them out of her house, or even how to go on about contacting them but she didn't allow herself the luxury of uncertainty. The sooner she got this done, the sooner she would be free. So she sat down at her personal writing desk and took out an old-fashioned style stationary Lily had gifted her one Christmas that she had thrown away into the back of her closet to be forgotten. She had to dust and wipe it a few times before it was clean enough to be used but finally, she took out the calligraphy pen and began writing a quick note:

_To: the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts_

_Hello. I know your Ministry does not usually deal with a muggle but my sister went to Hogwarts, graduate class of 1980, and had told me about the very important work you do. It seems that someone has placed some sort of spell on my house. I am able to leave for brief periods of time, though as a housewife I usually spend the day at home, keeping the house, but whenever I am gone for more than a few days, I start to feel quite sick. I get dizzy and nauseous, and even fainted once! _

_It's not only my immediate family who is in danger but my nephew as well. She and her husband, I can not quite remember his name, had died in that war of yours and left me to raise her son. The spell, whatever it is, also affects him in the same way. Please, I need your help._

_Mrs. Dursley_

_#4 Privet Drive_

_Little Winging, Surrey_

She had made sure to include her address not only so that she could receive a reply but so that they would be able to find her; the letter that'd been left with the boy from the old man had stated that only if she (or him) willingly and personally told someone the address would any wizard or witch be able to find her. He had also made it a point to tell her that it was part of the blood-wards he had placed to protect the boy and her family from being found by 'dangerous' people. She had her own suspicions about what exactly made them dangerous, for he had also mentioned that the brat was named 'the Boy-Who-Lived'. Illogical to give him a title, just for surviving where his mother did not but then, most of the Freaks didn't even seem to recognize logic so what had she really expected from their kind?

Well, she could only wait for a reply and hope that they didn't show up without first notifying her. She'd rather not have to deal with Vernon and his tantrums or expose her son to their Freakishness. Neither did she want the boy to know the power he could have over her if he knew he had magic, which whoever they sent would be only too glad to speak about.

She neatly packed away the stationary and the letter in a locked drawer of her desk and made a note to stop by the post office later; she knew there was a special box for sending letters to their world and went to make dinner. Vernon would be home soon.

The next few days passed in tense anticipation, making her more irritable and snapping at everyone until Vernon _looked _at her and reminded her why she had never raised her voice to him before. Finally, she received a reply in the form of a normal looking envelope. She made sure to open it only after Vernon had left his work and the boys for school, and then she canceled her lunch date with her neighbor to rip it open.

_Dear Mrs. Dursley, we are sorry to hear about your troubles and will send someone to help as soon as we can. It's true that we usually do not deal with muggles even in our department; however, as your sister was a muggleborn helping you will not count as a breach of the Secrecy Act. Please inform us of the best date to come over._

_Arthur Weasley, Head_

_Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts_

She quickly wrote a reply to come by between the hours of 2 and 3:30 in the afternoon this Friday if possible. After another exchange of letters, where both parties had to cancel for some reason or another; he had some 'Quidditch' game to go to and she had to host a dinner for her husband's boss and wife, they finally settled on the first Wednesday of the next month. She was unhappy that it would take so long but her lawyer had informed her just last night, that the paperwork was all finished and she only had to sign them. After this chore was done with, she could drop the boy off at the orphanage she had informed beforehand months before and simply leave.

* * *

><p>The day had finally come: she was expecting a Mister Weasley in the next half-hour or so. Se only hoped he wouldn't stand out too much but she remembered what her sister's husband seemed to think 'muggle' fashion was. She had just set down the tea tray on the coffee table when a knock was heard. She smoothed down her best Sunday dress and checked her hair in the mirror by the door. She opened it to find a man with flame-colored hair dressed in a reasonable business man's outfit with a briefcase and a broad smile.<p>

"Hello, hello! Would you be Mrs. Dursley, then? I'm Arthur Weasley from the Department of—"

Her eyes widened as she realized the stupid man was about to blurt out something that would have all the tongues wagging in Little Winging; she could see several of her neighbors watching from behind their front curtains. She hurriedly let him in and spoke over him, "Water and Power, yes. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice! Please don't just stand out there—come in, come in."

Bewildered but catching on quick, Weasley let himself be shown in and made sure to raise his voice to reply, "Oh yes. It was quite a list, but we are always happy to help such a valued customer. It was no problem at all!" As soon as he was inside, Petunia went to check that the ruse had worked and looked out her own front curtains. Letting out a sigh of relief, she saw that no one suspected a thing and reminded herself that just because he was a Freak was no reason to be impolite, especially if he was going to help break the spell.

She served him his tea and asked him how he liked it, "What? Oh, two sugars please." They made some small talk, politely curious on his part and thinly-veiled contempt on hers before they got on to business.

He slid the tea set to the side and placed his briefcase on the table, taking out several strange instruments out of it. She wanted to ask what they were for but just sat quietly and watched him work. After ten minutes spent muttering under his breath and waving the things around, furiously scribbling notes down, he finally sat back with a tired sigh.

"Well, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes but I could tell even as I was walking toward the house that there's a _very_ strong spell on it; according to my instruments, there are actually several layers of spells placed right on top of each other and holding it all together is a blood-ward." He grimaced. "That's powerful dark magic. You have a spell to hide this place from wizard and other magical creatures; a spell to stop any owl from finding a recipient of this house; a spell to protect it from magical attack; a spell to prevent theft; and some minor enchantments common to any Wizarding house."

She stared back at him in dawning horror, as hopelessness began to creep into her thoughts. She never knew there were so many! The letter had only told her about the blood-ward. No doubt, the old man knew she would refuse if he asked to cast any other spells and went ahead with them. She almost didn't hear the question he asked of her in her misery.

"….know of why there would be so many spells, and these _particular_ spells, placed on your house? Most of them are harmless and, in fact, beneficial to have. The mail-ward is unusual but my biggest concern is the blood-ward. Its considered dark magic because it uses the life force of the inhabitants to maintain its existence and can have side-effects in the long term, such as the feelings of dizziness and nausea you had described." He frowned in confusion.

She forced herself to answer even as her mind was still stuck on the fact that it was sucking the life out of her, "I'm not sure about the blood-ward you're talking about but the other spells—the ones that stopped owl post and hid and protected this house were cast by a friend of my sister's. An old school mate who came to visit the boy and offered to cast them. He wanted to make sure we would be safe; my sister was involved in the war and was killed by those—Deatheaters, I think, was what they were called."

"Do you know why she had been targeted?"

She made sure to give a wry smile and let her eyes shine. "From what she told me about them, it was enough that she came from a witch who came from a non-magical family. That she'd dared to reproduce probably insulted them." She made sure to seem as if she was on the verge of crying and continued, "I warned her not to make a bother of herself, but she was never one to shy away from what she believed in. And she got herself killed for it!" She let some of her true feelings show about her sister, allowing her contempt to be confused for anger.

"I—I'm so sorry. You'd said in your letter that you'd taken your nephew in after she had died but I never imagined she was murdered! But I can easily believe it; the war killed a lot of good people." His voice trembled a little. "Anyway," he said, clearing his throat, "your sister's friend cast those spells?"

She nodded. "I have no idea about this blood-ward though, I've never even heard of it! It does explain my symptoms, however. I have to admit, I'm relieved somewhat; my husband was ready to take me to the hospital and I probably would have been diagnosed with Hysteria or some such thing."

For a moment they were silent but at the chime of the clock, signaling lunch, she reminded herself that it was no time to be feeling sorry. "Can you break it?"

"Well. I've never dealt with one before…luckily, I'd researched your symptoms and a blood-ward was one of the possibilities that came up. Theoretically I should be able to. I suppose we'll just have to see." With that, he took out a long stick—wand, she remembered Lily telling her—and began moving it around in some nonsensical patterns, reciting something in Latin.

It took more than a few tries, but he didn't give up and suddenly she felt something snap in her mind. She fell to her knees as her legs refused to hold her up, fatigue falling over her heavily. She was barely able to see him out before she staggered over to the couch. She still felt weak hours later and she noticed that the Freak was the same. She told him to order something for dinner and stay in the cupboard for the rest of the night.

Vernon complained but when he saw she really wasn't feeling well, he backed off; it was times like this that she remembered one of the other reasons she married him. He had always been so sweet and considerate in the beginning before Grunnings, before he had to pay for three then four people, and before he found more comfort in the bottom of a beer bottle than in her arms. She missed what they had together. She missed him.

She missed the love they once had for each other.

When Vernon carried her upstairs and curled around her, whispering that he'd always take care of 'his Petunia', she almost broke down and confessed but she just turned her face into his chest and cried.

She fell asleep with tears running down her face and a thousand regrets tearing her heart apart.

* * *

><p>AN: I know how all you Dursley-haters out there must be hating that im making petunia even the littlest bit sympathetic but I did warn you guys that im gonna be making them more than 2-dimensional. I'm not trying to make her more likeable, but ever hear of a 'sympathetic villain'? Besides, I'm trying to make Rowling's core storyline a bit more realistic without overhauling it completely. And most people are a mish mash of good and bad traits, no one is completely good or evil—except for those few horrible people out there and, like, Ghandi.<p>

And sometimes even those people you hear about on the news who abuse/kill/rape people? Very likely but not always—and im not making excuses for them, fuck no—they had the same things happen to them.


	8. Never Return

She woke up the next morning, cursing herself for being so damn sentimental. Her lips curled. She'd accepted long ago that the man she fell in love with and the one she married were two different people, wishing for that man wouldn't bring him back. No, she would find someone else and forget all about ever being Mrs. Dursley or Aunt Petunia. But this _was_ the last time she would wake up in Vernon's arms, so she let herself be weak for just a minute and be held by him.

She slipped out of bed and dressed for the day, before heading downstairs to make breakfast. As she had the Freak set down the plates, ignoring his sluggish movements and tired eyes, knowing that she looked no better, she called the school to tell them she had a dentist appointment to the take the boy to. She woke Vernon and Dudley and called them down to eat and kissed them both goodbyes.

When she and the boy were alone, her sitting down at the table sipping tea and he washing the dishes, she spoke: "You won't be going to school today; an appointment neither of us can ill afford to miss. You are to collect all your personal belongings and place them in your school bag, including the things you hide in the loose floorboard of the cupboard. Then you are to wait for me by the door."

Startled, he turned to her, dripping suds on the floor and hesitantly opened his mouth to speak. She made sure to meet his eyes with a stern look, cutting him off. "Do not ask questions and do not speak unless spoken to, am I clear?" She waited until he nodded his head fervently before dismissing him. "Good. And clean up the mess you made."

* * *

><p>Boy wasn't sure what Aunt Petunia had planned for him but he knew that whatever it was, it wasn't good. She'd never taken him to any kind of appointment before; when he had needed glasses, she had made him pick a pair from the charity bin.<p>

It worried him that she wanted him to get his things together; it meant that he wouldn't be coming back. Scenario after scenario, more horrible than the last, flashed in his mind. The things he'd read, what he'd experienced—there might not be a lot of places or situations worse off than he was now, but those few did exist and was enough to cause fear in him.

"Hurry up, Boy!" Aunt Petunia's tone of voice served to remind him that they were on some kind of time-limit. He ruthlessly shoved the fear to the back of the mind and let his common sense take over. First, do as the woman said. _Then_ worry.

_'Plan for the worst and hope for the best.'_

He lived by that saying and it had saved him more than times than he could count.

* * *

><p>Finally they were on their way, both their bags quickly loaded into the trunk of the car. Neither glanced back to see as Little Winging became smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. Petunia left nothing she would miss and the boy next to her had never had anything <em>to<em> miss. Except for Miss Smith, but he would make sure to call her later and tell her what had happened, if only so she wouldn't worry; a novel concept for a boy who'd never known love.

Soon enough they arrived in front of an old, careworn building with children playing in the front lawn. There was a simple sign on which only two lines were written:

_St. Jules Center for Boys and Girls_

_-founded in 1945_

His clasped his hands together, forcing himself to calm down, breathe slow and deep like he had practiced countless times before and turned to Aunt Petunia. "Why…?" he couldn't help but ask—had to ask. Or wonder forever and hate himself for not having had the courage to ask.

A simple question with a simple answer: He told himself that he knew exactly what she would say and so, shouldn't be surprised by it. At all.

But he was.

And it didn't stop it from hurting.

She didn't even bother to look him in the eyes as she answered, already moving to open the cab door and leave him as soon as possible.

"Because I don't want you."

* * *

><p>"Wait here. <em>And don't say a word<em>." She spoke sharply, pointing to a dilapidated couch. "Sit." He sat. She disappeared through an oak door with a chipped lock where he could just see the silhouette of another woman waiting on the other side, official-looking documents in hand.

He was numb, struck speechless after her more than honest answer. He didn't know why he bothered to ask _why_ she was abandoning him; she'd never been one to mince words, at least to him, and had told him a number of times how much better it would have been if he had died with his parents.

He knew she resented the burden of caring for her orphan nephew, the son of her hated sister. He knew that she knew about Uncle Vernon's beatings—he wasn't sure about the 'other' stuff—and had always stopped things from going too far, even when it seemed he would hit _her_ instead. But he never imagined that she would be so repulsed by him; hate him so much that she would hand him over to the orphanage, going without the handsome guardian stipend she received from the government for taking care of him.

Somewhere inside of him, the little boy who had hungered for any scrap of praise or affection from her and had watched enviously of the love and devotion she showed to his cousin still existed. He was furious of how much power she still held over him, even after years of being treated like a slave. After finally being able to admit they had abused him, if only to himself in the safety of his mind.

He had promised never to allow anyone to have that kind of power over him again.

He curled his fists, ignoring the sharp brittle nails that bit into his skin. He had shed enough tears and blood to earn some respite hadn't he? He deserved to live a life on his own terms. And he would, he swore. One day, he would be free and no one, NO ONE, would be able to dictate to him how to live his life—he'd kill himself first.

But honestly…

He really was pathetic; she was right, he _should_ have died with his parents. Anyone worth their salt would have learned by now not to expect miracles. How could he have even thought for a second that she could ever feel anything for him but contempt? And what should he feel for her but the same in return?

But that's just it, isn't it? He wasn't worth a damn.

Grinding his teeth, trying to sooth the deep, deep anger within, he resolved to ignore it for now. Until he was either proven wrong or made himself 'worth it'. With those thoughts, he focused on the here and now, taking a closer look at the room he was in: two lumpy couches, a lamp with a horrid flamingo shade, what used to be a white rug and a lopsided coffee table stacked with old magazines. He noticed that there were pictures and awards lined on the walls in proud display. At least he knew they appreciated the kids around here, the talented ones that would bring them a better reputation and more money anyhow.

He wondered what was taking so long in there. All she had to do was hand him over right? Maybe sign one or two things. But she spent over a quarter of an hour in there with, who he realized by now, had to be the director of the orphanage.

Finally she came out; both women wore grim expressions that only became grimmer when they saw him. Aunt Petunia addressed the other woman, "May I have a moment with my nephew before I leave, Miss Black? There are some things I would like to say to him."

_'Haven't you already said enough, you bitter old shrew?'_ Unbidden, the thought rose up. Luckily for him, his self-preservation instincts were as strong as ever and held his tongue ,even though a part of him dearly wished to speak honestly all the things he thought of her and the way she had treated him, his only true blood relative.

"Oh, of course not!" She exclaimed, all understanding smiles and sympathetic looks. "There are some papers that need to be signed, anyways." She hustled away back into her office, presumably to work on those papers that needed signing.

The door was left open a crack but Petunia simply sat as close as she was willing to, ignoring the possible eavesdropper, and spoke in a brisk manner. "This is where you'll be living from now on, make no mistake. This is no joke or threat, it is fact. Deal with it." She paused. "I'm leaving Vernon and taking Dudley with me, so don't do a stupid thing like running away from here and going back to Little Winging. The only one to greet you will be Vernon."

He grimaced. The thought _had_ occurred to him, but what she said was true; Uncle Vernon would not be happy to see him, _especially_ when he found out what Aunt Petunia had done—taking away his favorite punching bag and divorcing him from what he understood she was saying. Still, maybe he could call Miss Smith to lend him some money and he could rent a hotel room for the night, instead of staying here. Vague thoughts of finding a hideaway, some place, and getting a job, maybe, went through his mind.

"You're a Freak." He heard the capital as always and wondered for the thousandth time what exactly she meant by that. She continued, "You can do things other people can't; appear on top of buildings with just a thought or turn someone's hair blue." She looked straight into his eyes as she said, "You can do magic."

"You knew?" He asked in shock and disbelief; he had thought all along that he had been able to hide his bouts of accidental magic but apparently not.

"Of course I knew. How could you not be? My perfect sister being who she was. My mother and father were so proud the day she got her letter. 'We have a witch in the family. Isn't it wonderful?' I was the only one to see her for what she was... a freak! And then she met that Potter. And then she had you, and I knew you would be the same. Just as strange, just as... abnormal." She hissed.

He bit back the angry retorts he wanted to hiss right back at her and stated more than asked, "You said magic didn't exist."

"I lied," was her prompt and unregretful reply.

"Why?" He asked, sensing that she wouldn't speak until he did so. A common tactic that she used sometimes, to trick him into 'talking back to her' and asking stupid questions, which he would then be punished for.

"I had to. We were and are in danger because of you." He was confused. Why were they in danger because of him? "They were people after you, other Freaks, who would have killed us all just to get to you. You can thank your parents for that by the way; they passed on their curse to you and now you have to pay the price for it."

"What?!"

He felt the first stirrings of unease and fear curl in his belly.

"Your parents didn't die in a car crash, they were murdered. They were on the frontlines of a war that divided the 'Wizarding World'—" She spat the name out like a curse, "Made themselves an enemy of some so-called 'evil' Freak called Voldemort, according to Dumbledore."

"Who's Dumbledore?"

"The Freak who left you with me: Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You'll be getting a letter from them in a year from now on your birthday; a letter of acceptance to their school. Yes, I know you didn't apply—apparently you're put down as soon as you're born.

"He's also the reason you were stuck with me as a guardian. He cast something called a blood-ward on the house that kept _both of us_ from leaving. Why do you think we never bothered going on a vacation after the disaster that was the first time? I almost died just crossing the border into France."

He remembered that vacation; they had left, loudly proclaiming all the fun they'd have without him only to return, agitated and incensed, less than a day later with a hospitalized Aunt Petunia.

That was when the beatings began.

Now he knew why.

Whoever this 'Dumbledore' was, he was solely responsible for causing a lot of the pain he had suffered in his life. If the Dursleys were able to go even a week without having to deal with him, he knew they might have simply treated him like an unwanted family member coming to stay for an indefinite period of time rather than the slave-cum-punching bag he was relegated to.

_And_ he got sick whenever he was too far away or spent too much time outside the house—_just_ like Aunt Petunia.

_'Fucking Dumbledore!' _He swore, realizing how completely this old man had fucked up his life.

"Luckily, I was able to contact the Ministry—Freak government—and they sent someone over to break the spell, among others. You should know that the reason you and I, and to a much lesser extent, Dudley, became more tired easily is because this blood-ward used our life-force to power it. Probably bits of your magic, too, come to think of it."

He was—he didn't know what he was feeling, exactly, at that very moment. Horror, maybe? Anger, definitely. A hell of a lot of disgust, no question.

"You mean—that day I came home and you were sick and I felt bad was because, because—"

"That was the day it broke."

He just kept finding more and more reasons to hate this 'Dumbledore'. Did the fucker know what he was even doing? Or did he do it on purpose for some, as of yet, incomprehensible reason?

She placed some papers in front of him and set down a wrapped bundle of cloth. "These," she waved her hands over the papers, "are your birth certificate and other documents proving your existence; a change of guardianship from me to the state, specifically to this orphanage; and a change of name for you—don't ask me what or why, I'm about to explain." She then leaned closer to him and her eyes were as serious as he'd ever seen them.

"Listen to me very closely because I'm only ever going to say this once: _don't be found_. Those people I told you about? The ones who would happily kill me and Dudley to get to you are still alive and you'll most likely meet them without even knowing it.

"They served Voldemort and believed in pureblood supremacy—think of the Nazis, same creed, different blood. Your mother was the first witch in her family, what they call a 'muggleborn'. You're the child of a muggleborn and a 'pureblood', a witch or wizard who comes from generations of them, which makes you a 'half-blood'. The Deatheaters, it's what they called themselves, believed that purebloods were the best of the lot and everyone else was scum. They thought that muggleborns should be kept out of their world and halfbloods were an abomination.

"That's part of why I changed your surname from Potter to Evans, it's as common a name but most will be looking for Harry Potter, not Harry _Evans_. I doubt some would have bothered to know your mother's maiden name. Freaks don't know too much about the normal world unless they come from it or their half-and-half, and sometimes not even then. It'll make it that much harder for them to find you. And if they can't find you, they can't find me and force us back together. _Understand?"_

He nodded with strength he didn't know he still had and she continued, unknowing or most likely, uncaring of the chaos she had thrown not only his mind, but his emotions into. How very like her.

"The most important thing is to remember that as long as you're hidden from them, you're safe—alive. That's where this will help you." With that, she took out something from her purse; it was a necklace, clearly meant for a girl with a pendant in the shape of a flower and colored a brilliant mixture of red and gold. "It was your mother's when she was young. She sent this to me, fearing her enemies would come after me. She told me it has a number of spells on it, to protect and hide. I wouldn't know as I've never worn it."

He accepted it with reverence, holding it gingerly. This belonged to his mother; she had worn this necklace once and sent it to her sister who couldn't even accept it with gratitude for the precious gift that it was, probably knowing she would refuse it but trying anyway. His mother, who was kind and pretty and a Freak—no, a wizard—no, a witch—like him!

She pointed to the bundle. "These are all of your mother's old school things, some family photos, and the letter from Dumbledore." While he sat there in stunned silence, still trying to process all the information he had been told—the fact that she had bothered to give him any of his mum's things—she stood, readying to leave.

"One more thing: when Voldemort came, he wasn't able to kill you for some reason, instead you survived the 'killing curse' and he disappeared that night. Because of it, they named you the Boy-Who-Lived."

"What!" He felt his mouth hanging open stupidly. _'That's crazy. Why would they give me a title just for living where my parents died?'_

When she reached the door, she seemed to hesitate a little, looking over her shoulder at him, and something that wasn't purely contempt glittered from the depths of her eyes.

In the end she gave him a harsh glare and said, "Don't waste all the hard work I did to protect you for so long. Your mother didn't sacrifice herself just so you could die at the hands of her enemies. Remember that." The door shut behind her and she was gone.

Never to return.

* * *

><p>AN: there have been some slight changes to this chapter but nothing particularly overt, so it shouldn't have any great impact on the storyline. but if you have an eye for detail, the interaction between harry and his aunt at the very end there may skew your perception of Petunia Dursley. not to say that you will like her or any better, but that you might see her in a slightly kinder light...?<p> 


	9. Abandoned

The sounds of the airport were busy with people hurrying by and airplanes taking off constantly, a soothing background noise and a reminder that she was almost free. She checked her watch again, noting worriedly that she was ten minutes late. She ignored the well-dressed man in his business suit next to her who politely rolled his eyes, if that was even possible.

Dealing with that woman and explaining in detail to the boy everything he needed to know was exhausting, and took much too long. The director of that orphanage was an irritating woman who had fussed over everything before she agreed to sign the guardianship papers. Then she had to make sure the boy would know how to protect himself—if only to protect _herself_.

If they found him, Dumbledore would know. And if he knew…she shuddered. She didn't want to think about what he would do to make sure the boy fell into his plans, plans he had barely alluded to in his letter but ones she knew he had. He had put too much effort into making sure neither of them could leave the house she had once considered a home, before the old man had ruined it all.

"I assure you, Mrs. Dursley, your son is fine. I've been in contact with your sister-in-law—"

"Ex." She muttered. "And please don't call me by that name. It's Miss Evans, now."

"My apologies, Miss Evans. Your _Ex_ sister-in-law was simply delayed by traffic. They should be here in a matter of minutes." His eyes stare into the distance, as if he had caught a glimpse of something interesting. "Ah. There they are; see your son by the vending machines?"

She did.

He almost knocked over an old woman and her luggage cart in his haste as he ran over to her, Marge trying and failing to keep up. He wrapped his arms around her waist, squeezing tightly in his confusion and fear. "Mum!" He exclaimed. "What's going on? Where are we going? Aunt Marge wouldn't tell me _anything_ and…"

She let him chatter away, hardly hearing anything he was actually saying and just listening to the sound of his voice, his presence comfort her, as she wrapped her arms around him. She thanked god that he was safe with her now, away from Vernon and the Freak and everything that had trapped them in Little Winging.

She was reminded of how much she loved him, this boy, her precious Dudders who had tried so hard to please his father in the only way he knew how. She knew that while he may have enjoyed chasing the other children and such, he had never been comfortable actually becoming physical with any of them. But Vernon wouldn't have a 'pansy' for a son and had signed him up for boxing lessons, encouraging him to be more aggressive and did not allow him to get away with only pushing the Freak around.

The first (and only) time Dudley had refused to hit the boy, Vernon had gotten very angry but had suddenly calmed down and seemed to accept it. Then she had found her son moving stiffly a few days later; she found out Vernon had 'disciplined' him in the style of his alma mater, Smeltings, by caning the boy on his back.

He never spoke up against his father again.

He obediently beat the Freak each time after, though never as violently as his father. She knew he locked himself in his room so Vernon wouldn't see him crying and always shoved some kind of sweet under the cupboard door in his guilt. She wished she could tell him that it wasn't his fault, that a 9 year old boy couldn't stop a grown man and shouldn't have had to stand up to Vernon in the first place. Her sweet, innocent little boy.

She hated Vernon for what he had done to their son—_her_ son. Her precious Dudley who acted a bully at home and at school, but was so careful of the damage his body could do when alone with her. That was the first time she had thought about divorcing him, but had been too scared of what he would do to actually go through with it. Then the nurse had called and she knew she couldn't allow him to mould Dudley in his own image any longer.

Vernon Dursley had hurt all of them for long enough…even the Freak. She still didn't care for him but no child deserved to suffer like he did. If she had been braver, stronger like Lily, she would have divorced Vernon in a heartbeat and taken off with the children to live the way she wanted to. Instead she had watched silently as he had his way with the boy and poisoned their son. It was too much; she had suffered through childhood as the less favored child and she had suffered through her adult years bound to a house by the very blood in her veins.

No more.

She let Dudley out of the circle of her arms when he began to squirm. This would be a clean start for both of them as a normal, healthy, loving family—just the two of them. She looked up to deal with a once hated in-law and the lawyer who had done so much for her, both here to see that there would be no sudden complications arising before they were able to board the plane.

Only fifteen more minutes before the plane would take off and then they would be safe.

They would be free.

* * *

><p>Boy sat very still on the couch, processing everything he had heard and especially the things he <em>hadn't<em> heard; Aunt Petunia had made it a point to mention that it was this Dumbledore who had left him on their doorstep on Halloween night 9 years ago.

Dumbledore, who decided that he was better off with the Dursleys than anyone else, like someone _decent_. Hell, even Miss Figg with her dozens of cats and forgetting to feed him sometimes, than on purpose like Aunt Petunia, and old person smell would be a hundred times better than the _Dursleys_.

Dumbledore left him outside in the cold at _night_, blithely ignoring the fact that he could have simply walked off or gotten hypothermia. Or any number of other dangerous things could have happened to him as a defenseless, vulnerable baby.

_Dumbledore_ left him with the Dursleys without making sure they even wanted him in the first place. Surprise, surprise—they didn't. Want him, that is, and would have sold him off if it weren't for what he now suspected were the blood-ward and whatever the old man had told them in that letter of his stopping them. Dumbledore had never checked up on him; made sure he was being clothed and fed properly, or just being treated like a human being.

He forced himself to calm down, letting his hands relax and worriedly checked that he hadn't broken the necklace. It was the only thing of his mother's he had and he'd be damned if he broke it in his childish anger. He had all the right to be angry, of course, but that was no excuse for acting foolishly.

He ran a finger lightly over the face of the pendant, careful not to dirty it. He gently placed it around his neck, making sure to tuck it under his shirt. He collected the papers in a neat pile and placed them in the folder Aunt Petunia had slipped them from. Next, he gathered the bundle up in his arms, folding the folder in half and tucking it in, safe within its folds. He walked over to his new guardian's door.

He knocked politely, hoping to start off on good terms. "Excuse me? My Aunt's left." He called.

He stepped back as footsteps hurried toward the door. The door opened to reveal the not unpleasant face of a woman in her mid-to-late thirties. He tried to look more innocent than he was; rounding out his eyes and not entirely pretending to give a nervous smile.

And he knew it wasn't that hard to believe in his 'innocence' because of how small and thin he was, not that looking or actually being innocent had ever worked with the Dursleys.

"Well then, let's get you settled in why don't we? I'm Ms. Tremaine by the way, the director of this orphanage. I'm also in charge of the Young Scholars Program here." He had no idea what kind of 'program' she was talking about but her smile was kind. It didn't hurt that she was pretty either.

Her tone was brisk and her manner efficient as she took him on a quick tour, but she was friendly enough and didn't pry into his affairs. He liked that she didn't pity him or ask why his aunt had left him here. He felt that boded well for his future at the orphanage.

St Jules Center for Boys and Girls had two buildings. The main building housed the dorms, 2 working bathrooms, a small kitchen with a large enough room for all the children to eat in and Miss Tremaine's office. The building on the right attached to it held the classrooms, where the children had 'school'.

Apparently the Young Scholars program advocated home-schooling children in orphanages rather than sending them to whatever local school was nearby. Tutors taught the basics to the younger children while the older students studied independently. It emphasized learning at the student's own pace and encouraged them to seek out subjects which interested them.

Miss Tremaine was a fierce advocate of the program; she talked about having to fight for years before the county let her run a 'trial period'. It was a success—mostly.

There was the issue of money, of course, for textbooks and the tutor's salaries. Luckily, she had a lot of friends who needed some teaching experience and were willing to work for a smaller pay. The books were donated by local schools and other charitable organizations. Boy admired her resourcefulness and quick thinking; he thought she had made the most of the situation.

He didn't mind that the books were secondhand and sometimes a little damaged.

Or that the tutors were un-experienced and still learning how to teach, themselves.

He didn't know how much to believe that she 'cared' for the children under her authority, but he observed the efforts she had put into the orphanage. He also noted that while some of the children were clearly as 'abused' as him, none of them seemed frightened of her when she paused to speak with them. They tensed and looked at her with nervous expressions, yes, but no one held themselves stiff, waiting for the next strike. Good.

That meant one more thing that differentiated her from the Dursleys. What's more, it meant that she either didn't allow anyone to abuse the children or that she wasn't abusing them herself, at least. Taking a closer look at the way she acted towards them, making sure to slowly move her arms and speaking in a neutral tone, he sincerely doubted the latter.

Soon enough, they were on the second floor. There were doors on either side of the hallway they stepped out on from the staircase behind them. Most were closed but some were open and several children stared curiously at him as they walked by. He was glad to see none of them were openly hostile and reminded himself that with no Dudley to frighten the other children away, he could actually make some friends here.

If he wanted to.

They stopped in front of a door. "Here it is. This is going to be your room from now on. Oh, but hold on a minute. Let me just get this out…" He watched, curious, as she took out a laminated piece of paper from the clipboard she carried and stuck it to the wood with a thumbtack. "There. Now everyone will know that you live here."

He leaned forward, cursing his cheap glasses. He read it, then re-read it again in disbelief. For a few seconds he was dumbfounded. Then he smiled for the first time in years. It read:

_Room 15:_

_Harry Evans_

He couldn't help the stupid grin on his face; the Dursleys had never acknowledged him and had always referred to him as 'the Boy' whenever they had to introduce him to strangers. And here this woman was giving him his own _real_ room, telling him he was going to learn whatever he wanted—

"Oh, is there a problem with your glasses? We'll have to see about getting you some new ones then. I'll make an appointment with the optometrist."

_And_ he was getting a new pair of glasses!

"Thank you." he whispered, feeling the wetness in his eyes and hoping he wouldn't embarrass himself by crying. He followed her inside the room, glad she didn't ask him if he was alright. He hated that people usually asked when you clearly _weren't_ ok. He always felt tempted to say _exactly_ how much he wasn't alright the few times someone asked but had managed to restrain himself. No reason to go inviting trouble, as then there would be questions and eventually Uncle Vernon would have gotten involved.

His heart gave a traitorous quiver.

The room wasn't big but it was practically a luxury suite to a boy who had slept in a cramped cupboard with only spiders for company. There was a bed to the left hand side, covered by a thick quilt and a small pillow with a trunk at the foot of it. Straight across from the door was a writing desk with a chair and a bookcase nailed to the wall right next to it. All the furniture was used but well taken care of and the quilt was obviously handmade. There was even a thin rug on the floor between the bed and desk, which depicted a dark forest with mischievous eyes peeking out from the foliage.

"I know it's not much but it's all we can afford to give each child in the orphanage, as far as funds will let us. I hope you like it." She turned to him expectantly.

"No. I mean, yes. It's perfect. Much better than a cupboard." And slapped his hands over his mouth in horror. "That's not what I meant! What I meant was that, that—"

He cursed himself for his stupidity, he had been careless; he had let down his guard just like that time the nurse saw his bruises. He waited with baited breath for her to ask, "What cupboard?" or say something along the lines of "I knew you were a Freak."

Instead, she gave him that smile again. Kind and sweet. "Harry," she said and he almost didn't recognize his name coming from her lips, so little as it was used. "I can tell you're a lot like some of our other children here who haven't had a very good or easy life." So she _did_ know. "I'm not here to judge you. My job is to give you a good education and provide a safe place for you to live. I won't ask you any questions. I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to do but if you're willing to talk to me, I'll be happy to listen anytime." She slowly moved her hand toward him, letting it hover over his shoulder.

"Just know that I'm here for you if you need me."

She placed her hand back by her side and walked to the door. She paused and said, "You've missed breakfast but lunch will be served at noon. Come down if you're hungry but don't feel you have to. Dinner is at 7 o'clock, sharp."

He listened to her footsteps fade away.

So. She knew that they had been abused like him. She was smarter than most adults he had met, he'll give her that. She said some very pretty things. He still wasn't sure of her but this was just the beginning. Time would tell if he would truly be safe here or if his situation hadn't changed, only the surroundings.

* * *

><p>"Calling all passengers for Flight 120, British Airways. Calling all passengers for Flight…"<p>

Petunia took a deep breath and turned to her anxiously waiting son. "I know you're very confused right now, Dudley, but I promise I'll explain more to you when we get where we're going. _Please_, Dudley."

Dudley looked at her for what felt like hours but was, in fact, only a few minutes, _really_ looking at her. He noticed the bags under her eyes uncovered by make-up, the lines that cut harshly into her face. He knew most people didn't consider his mother to be as pretty as some of the other housewives on their street but she had always been beautiful to him. Strong.

But now he saw what he hadn't allowed himself to see; she was still beautiful but she was so very tired. And old. He reached up on his tippy toes and gently traced the crow's feet around her eyes and the strained smile she gave him, amusement lighting her face for a moment. "Ok." He said, setting himself back down.

He would be strong for her. She had suffered in quiet for so long. It was time for him to take care of her now. And he would, he would grow strong—stronger than his father even!—and protect her.

"Ok?" she asked, surprised by how easily he agreed with her. Usually he made such a fuss when things didn't go his way. More of Vernon's 'parenting' and a bit of his own spoiled childhood.

"Ok." He reached out to wrap his arms around her again, this time in a protective gesture. "It's time for me to take care of you now, mum. Just promise me you'll tell me later?" She crushed him to her, squeezing tightly.

"Oh, Dudley! My sweet boy. I promise…" She almost couldn't speak for the sobs and they spent a long while just holding onto each other in reassurance.

"Last call for passengers boarding Flight 120, British Airways."

The cool voice of the speakers reminded her that it was all well and good to know that your son loved you as much as you loved him, but that if they didn't separate soon they would miss their flight. And all her plans would have been for nothing. She found the strength to let him go and push the cart with their luggage toward the terminal for flights to Jordon.

She smiled fondly at him and sent an appreciative noise when he gently but firmly took over steering the cart for her. They_ just _made it through the lines and boarded the plane. Soon they were speeding down the run away and suddenly, found themselves in the air.

She watched amazed, on her first plane ride ever, as London grew smaller and smaller through the windows until it was just another collection of dots on the ground. She reached over the seats to hold Dudley's hand and squeezed it. He blushed but didn't let go. A sudden warmth filled her.

They were finally free.

* * *

><p>Boy—no, <em>Harry<em>, he firmly reminded himself. It was his _name_ and he had to start thinking of himself as someone who had a name, a name his parents had given him. Parents who had loved him and died for him. He wouldn't dishonor their sacrifice by living his life as the 'Freak' the Dursleys had believed him to be.

Idly, he wondered what exactly his father had done to protect him as Aunt Petunia had only mentioned his mother was the one to sacrifice her life for him.

He hastily shoved that thought away as unimportant as he busied himself putting away his things and examining the room more closely. He patted down the quilt and happily found it to be soft and thick. What did he care if it was old and faded? It would keep him warm at night and that's all that mattered to him.

He set his things down on the bed, which included the folder containing his paperwork, the bundle of things his Aunt had packed for him, and the backpack he had carried around with all his personal effects. He would take a look later.

He went over to the desk and pulled out the chair. He gingerly set himself down in it, thinking that maybe it would break under his weight but it was built solidly and held him. It creaked a little but he could deal with that. He opened the drawers and found them empty. Of course, he didn't really have anything to put in them yet did he?

He saw that the bookcase only had two shelves. Perfect. He only had the one book, after all. He snickered to himself, amused by how sarcastic his inner voice could be. At least his 'naïve' and 'angry' voices weren't arguing again in the background of his thoughts, as they usually did. He supposed he would have to see someone about hearing voices in his head someday, no matter what flimsy excuses he had come up with to explain their existence.

He snorted. Yeah right. Like he'd ever willingly talk about his feelings with some shrink who'd only ask stupid questions and take notes on how crazy he is.

He stopped by the window to stare out at the darkening sky and the world outside. He stood there for some moments, just letting the rainbow of colors in the sky fill him with a sense of peace. He had never been able to watch the sun go down before and had always heard how beautiful it was, but was never allowed the opportunity. He had already promised to live a life he could be proud of, but decided that he would also make sure to do the things he had always wanted to do and never let an opportunity pass him by.

He came full circle back to the bed and sat down. He set the papers to one side, having already gone over them cursorily. He eagerly un-wrapped the bundle to find the treasures he had hoped for hidden inside; heavy books with titles of subjects he had never heard of, several photo frames of his mother as a young girl with a few people he recognized and some he didn't, a sealed roll of what he assumed was parchment paper; and scattered through all of this were trinkets that she had collected for some reason or another.

There was an odd golden ball that hummed when he held it. He almost dropped it when it suddenly sprouted wings and flew through the air around the room. He was glad that Miss Tremaine had closed his door when she left, otherwise there would be questions he wouldn't be able to answer. He watched delighted as it flitted about him, diving in closer and then rushing away, as if it wanted to be caught.

His eyes lit up as a thought made itself known; maybe he _was_ supposed to catch it?

He waited until it completed its circuit around the room for a third time and shot his hand out when it came close enough. _'I caught it!'_ He thought, as it fluttered in his hands, struggling to escape. That stupid smile came out again but this time he didn't bother forcing it down. There was no one to see but him.

He set it down and made a mental note to play with it later.

He reverently laid out the frames side by side so he could look at them all together. There were only four of them but that would be four more than he ever had. One was obviously a family photo of the Evans showing an older couple that must be his maternal grandparents with Aunt Petunia and his mother as children around his age. His mother was radiant in a sunny yellow dress, smiling a big smile at the camera. He stared into eyes as green as his own.

Aunt Petunia was clad in a more neutral brown skirt and stiff blouse with tie, some sort of uniform maybe and was frowning unhappily. Had she been bitter and resentful of her sister even then? He noted the stiff way she held herself and the fact that she faced away from the girl beside her. Yes, yes she did apparently.

The second was of his mother and some boy he didn't recognize but didn't think was his father as there weren't too many similarities between them. He had a hooked nose, which he recognized was the result of the bone not settling quite properly after being punched, probably more than once. His eyes were hooded and had eyes only for his mother, staring at her with longing and sadness both.

Perhaps, they were childhood sweethearts? He noted the fond look and the playful smile she sent the other—definitely friends, at the least.

The third photograph was of Lily in black robes and a witch's pointed hat, trunk at her feet and a cage with a brown owl inside. She posed with one hand on her hip and the other holding a long stick in front of her—a wand maybe? He hadn't thought that some of the stereotypes would ring true with actual witches and wizards but he supposed they had to be based on something.

He wasn't sure whether he would enjoy wearing a _dress_, whether they called it a robe or not because it still looked like a dress to him. And the hat…to be honest, it seemed kind of tacky to wear one. At least he already had a trunk to take with him to 'Hogwarts', he made a note to ask Miss Tremaine if it would be alright to leave with it or if it was supposed to stay in his room. He wasn't sure what the owl was all about. Maybe it was a pet or something?

But it was the last photograph which had the effect of making him come closest to crying since he was three years old and realized the Dursleys would never love him. It was his mother, much older and more tired than he had ever seen her in the photos but no less happy or beautiful. She held a swaddle of cloth in light blue lovingly in her arms.

He gasped as he recognized himself as the baby in her arms, a familiar and much loved blanket wrapped around him. Shyly peeking out from within it was a tiny face with green eyes and a tuft of black hair, smiling contently.

He noticed the arms around his mother's shoulders and that the picture was ripped in half, denying him what was most likely the face of his father. Aunt Petunia must have really hated him to have bothered to keep the other photos but refuse to leave this one untouched. He wanted to know, other than marrying her hated sister, what his father had done to earn her hate? Or was it enough that he was a wizard?

He traced over his mother's face and stared some more at the last photo before he moved on.

He fingered a charm bracelet with some unusual charms; a lily, a feather, a broomstick, a cauldron, some kind of sweet, a snake and a lion wrapped around each other, a witch's hat, and…emerald eyes? He leaned closer and saw that they really were two stone emeralds fashioned in the shape of eyes. Weird. And expensive. Someone obviously cared a great deal for his mother to have bought her this because not only was it of good quality, at least two of the charms were very personal. The lily and the emerald eyes could only be describing his mother.

The snake though…maybe she could speak to them like he did? The possibility warmed him, as it would only be one more thing to tie him to her.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. He swiftly gathered his things and wrapped them in the cloth, before placing it in the trunk at the foot of the bed, along with his backpack and the folder containing his documents.

He smoothed the quilt down and said, "Come in." He was surprised by how much he enjoyed saying that, having never been able to deny Uncle Vernon whenever he dragged him out of the cupboard. It didn't help that it locked from the outside.

The door slid open to reveal Miss Tremaine with a tray in her hands. On the tray were a covered plate and a bottle of water. "Good Evening, Harry. I've brought you some dinner since you missed lunch." He blinked. He had? Something of his confusion must have shown on his face because she chuckled and nodded outside. He turned to look and noticed that the sky he had admired what felt like only a few minutes ago was now completely dark. "You must have good night vision."

He shrugged. He'd never really noticed. "Unfortunately, I can't see in the dark as well as you can. So I'm going to have to turn on the lights, ok?" He nodded. He regretted his nonchalance seconds later, as the light seemed to stab his eyes. He pressed his hands against them and didn't remove them until he felt like they weren't bleeding anymore. Miss Tremaine had placed the tray on the desk in the meantime and stood there patiently waiting until he was ready.

"Sorry." He muttered. "I didn't expect that."

"It's alright." She tapped the tray. "Just remember to eat something before you go to sleep, ok? Tomorrow I'll take you to class and we'll see where you're at in terms of schooling. Be sure to wake up by 8, or you'll miss breakfast which is at 8:30." She winked and added, "A little bit of advice: if you get there a little early, you can get an extra piece of bacon. Don't tell anyone I said that, though. They all think I don't know."

"Thanks. " He said gratefully. He wanted to eat as much as he cold after being fed so little by the Dursleys.

He showed her to the door and returned the "Good Night!" she said to him. He listened as she repeated the phrase to the other children still up like him. He sat down at the desk and uncovered the plate to find some fish and chips. He licked his lips. He had only tasted it once when he stole a piece from the plate Dudley had him throw away. He devoured the meal and finished half the water in the bottle.

He found that he was soon yawning and feeling sleepy. He reminded himself to take the tray down to the cafeteria the next morning and took the bottle with him, as he stumbled over to the bed. He placed it on the ground beside him in case he got thirsty. He slipped under the covers and curled up, remembering to take the necklace off lest he choke himself with it.

He fell asleep holding it against his chest with a happy smile on his face.

* * *

><p>Elsewhere in the quaint little neighborhood of Little Winging, Surrey at #4 Privet Drive, Vernon Dursley came home to a dark and empty house. None of the lights were on and there were no sounds of Petunia humming along to the radio as she made his dinner. No window was broken. The lock on the door worked perfectly fine when he used his key to open the front door. There were no sign of a break-in. But then, there were no sounds at all.<p>

He went into the kitchen and left his idling in the driveway, key still in the ignition, as he searched for Petunia and Dudley. Even the Freak would have been a welcome sight in this place; it felt like one of those old Victorian houses left to rot, abandoned and having been empty of people for a long time.

When he saw the note on the table with Petunia's familiar handwriting, he felt relief settle his nerves. She was probably just out with Dudley on a shopping excursion. He would have to remind her when she came back that shopping for groceries weren't proper for a young boy. As he read the note, that assurance was brutally taken from him; with every word he read, he felt disbelief fill his mind.

Suddenly lights came on all throughout the neighborhood and windows were shoved aside as a furious roar was heard by all: "_BOY!"_

* * *

><p><em>AN: So, I've come up with an idea to explain Voldemort's story in the muggle world without breaking the secrecy laws and I haven't seen anyone else take it in this direction, so hopefully it'll be original, but who knows? Anyway, just wanted to let you guys know. Also: if you've noticed any grammer mistakes or anything like that, please let me know and I'll try adn fix it as fast as I can. I already re-read these chapters every once in a while <em>anyway<em>, but another set of eyes (or a dozen) would help tremendously._


	10. Surviving

Harry woke up early, as he always did, to make breakfast for the Dursleys. He wondered vaguely in his still sleepy state why Aunt Petunia hadn't yelled for him to 'get his lazy self up' yet. Or Uncle Vernon and Dudley to come pounding down the stairs, raining dust and spider webs on his head.

He was halfway across the room before he realized that he wasn't in Little Winging anymore. His only living blood relative had left him at an orphanage, no longer willing to take him in, even grudgingly as she did before. The followers of some neo-Nazi cult were intent on killing him in revenge for their fallen leader, who may or may not be dead as Aunt Petunia said he'd only 'disappeared' that night.

All bad things.

On the other hand, he no longer had to live like a slave, he had his own room, would get three _full _meals a day from now on, could learn whatever he wanted as long as he did well in the core subjects, and best of all, he knew that his mother loved him enough to die for him. Not exactly something to be celebrating—her death that is—but it was probably the greatest proof that you loved someone by sacrificing your life for them.

He opened the trunk and took out the photo with him as a baby. He stared at it in wonder, wishing he could remember what it felt like to be held in her arms. He gently placed the photo on the desk, carefully arranging it so that the sunlight framed it just right. He wished he had a bed table like the one he had seen in Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's bedroom; it would be nice to see her smiling face every day when he woke up in the mornings and be the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep.

Going back to the trunk, he took out the rest of his things to finish unpacking them. The folder would go into the one of the drawers in the desk. The rest of the photos would be set on the windowsill. His backpack full of his clothes would stay in the trunk. He would hide the magic books and other magical trinkets under the clothes. He would keep the charm bracelet and some of the trinkets he had collected over the years securely wrapped in the bundle.

He wasn't sure where to put that though, maybe under the clothes with the books and stuff? Or…he paused, as he heard the odd creaking noise under his feet which indicated a loose floorboard. Yes! He pushed away a corner of the rug and wiggled the board until he could pry it open. Now he had a safe place to hide his more delicate and important objects, along with anything else of value he may acquire.

He set about putting everything away in its proper place. He did spend a few moments going over the rest of the things in the bundle. He had been interrupted last night and wanted to finish inspecting them. The dinner had made him fuller than he had ever been and he had been exhausted by then, after all that happened yesterday.

There wasn't anything else of interest other than some interesting but ultimately useless things; some gold and copper-colored coins, a few feathers, a candy bar called 'Treacle Tart', and a vial filled with glittering sand attached to a broken gold chain. At least, he thought it was sand.

He just hoped it wasn't toxic or anything.

At the sound of footsteps rushing down the hallway and several voices calling out not to miss breakfast, he hurriedly wrapped everything back up in the cloth and put it in the small empty space beneath the floor. He made sure to firmly set the board in place and slide the rug back over it.

With that done and taking one more look at his room, he walked out the door, tray in hand and intent on getting that extra piece of bacon Miss Tremaine had mentioned.

* * *

><p>Helen Tremaine glanced at the clock and noted that it was halfway into breakfast. She'd best be making an appearance, then.<p>

She'd always try and eat at least one meal with the students, to show them that she was around. Remind them that she was there to talk to and that she wasn't just the director of the orphanage but their guardian as well.

A responsibility she took very seriously; she was determined not to let any of the children down, unlike the other adults in their lives. She made sure to close and lock the door behind her before she headed down the hallway to the cafeteria. When she entered, she was greeted by the dozen or so children at the orphanage and replied with a cheery "Good Morning!"

She was glad to see Harry sitting down at one of the tables by Jack. Good, if there was anyone who could get him to open up and trust even a little bit, it would be that boy. She sat down to eat her own plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, and started a conversation with one of the older children who needed her advice on which universities to apply to.

* * *

><p>He had made it to breakfast somehow and made sure to place the used tray in an area marked off with a sign which read, "Place Trays Here". He had stared at the food like an idiot for a little bit before some irritated muttering from behind reminded him that there were others in line waiting as well.<p>

He didn't _quite_ stare at the ground as he walked away with a new tray of delicious looking foods, but he certainly didn't go out of his way to draw any more attention to himself then he already did.

He didn't want to push anyone away by acting like some idiot…or a Freak. He didn't want his stay at the Orphanage to be a continuation of what Dudley had made his Primary schooling like; miserable, friendless and without even Dudley here to do it for him!

He did not miss 'Harry-hunting'.

At all.

He determinedly set about eating everything on the plate, saving that extra piece of bacon for last and especially enjoying it. He slowly drank the glass of orange juice that came with the meal, relishing the tangy, sweet flavor of it. He had barely finished when, with a 'thump', someone sat down across from him.

"So, you're the new kid, huh?"

Harry let his bangs hang over his face as he observed the older boy; he was tall and was beginning to develop some muscles, tanned from sports or hard work—probably a bit of both, light brown hair cut at the shoulders and hazel eyes flecked with gold.

They caught his own eyes as he took another glance and he was bewildered by the expression on the older boy's face before he realized that the wide grin was not aimed at him with gleeful anticipation of humiliating and/or hurting him. He blinked as he recognized the _friendly_ smile for what it was; the smile of someone mildly curious about a new face and one of genuine affableness.

Harry finally lifted his head, letting his own green eyes show and answered, "Yes. Evans. Harry Evans."

The grin grew to a smirk and Harry waited for the nasty remark to follow but what he actually said was this, "Hillcrest. Jack Hillcrest." An eyebrow went up and amusement showed in his eyes. "Didn't expect you to be such a fan of the movies to introduce yourself like 007—'_Bond. James Bond.'_ Sound familiar?"

Harry was horrified to feel himself blushing and barely managed to reply, "Sorry, you startled me."

He was relieved by the still-friendly smile Jack sported. "Don't worry about it. So Harry, what do you think of St. Jules so far?"

"Well," he began, considering his answers carefully so as not to alienate the boy in front of him who might very well love—or hate—the orphanage. "I just arrived yesterday. Miss Tremaine gave me a quick tour but I'm still learning the layout of the building, and she didn't have time to take me to the classrooms." He paused. "She told me that St. Jules is part of the Young Scholars Program and that I'll be starting classes with everybody as soon as I'm tested."

"Right, well the placement tests really just tell the tutors how well you can read and write and count 'n stuff. Basically just what you know. Easy." Jack shrugged, nodding reassuringly.

"Easy," Harry repeated, hoping it would be as Jack described it; intellectually he knew that his place here was already assured by the guardianship papers that Aunt Petunia had signed, but emotionally he felt that if he made some mistake that they would throw him out into the streets to a worse fate.

He and Jack talked for a bit and were joined by a few others over time as breakfast was served, an even mix of boys and girls who all flocked to Jack's side. Harry could well understand why; Jack was a very friendly person who didn't much seem to care whether you were pretty, ugly, smart, stupid, or anything else that made you different. He treated everyone with about the same amount of attention, though he did show a bit more interest in certain people.

For instance, he was especially patient and kind in dealing with the younger orphans, and seemed to adore them—something they were quick to pick up on and delighted about; Harry watched, amazed, as Jack exclaimed over every childish drawing and listened with a rapt expression to every heroic tale of adventure, no doubt embellished heavily for the current audience. To Harry, this was yet more evidence that Jack Hillcrest was unlike any other person he'd ever known or dared to imagine existed.

Then there was Lucy. Lucy, who was beautiful, did not look like an orphan at all, had most likely never been abused—and was far too thin. Harry had been forced to feed on leftovers and scraps for years and his body showed the result of that starvation; he could count his ribs one by one, the way they pressed sharply against the skin, as if some alien presence within him was trying to tear right through. But Lucy, Lucy was even thinner than he was and that just wasn't right, shouldn't be possible even.

Of course, he knew that he wasn't the only one who's been through a traumatic and/or abusive experience but it's difficult to achieve the physical state he had when there was always someone to cook your meals and do all the domestic chores around the house. The high-quality, tailored clothes, make-up carefully and masterfully applied to her face, and the way she held herself all served to present the image of a very privileged girl who looked completely out of place in the cafeteria. But the longer he stared at her, the more that image proved to be an illusion; he noticed the dull and limp quality to her hair, how the clothes couldn't quite hide how painfully thin she was, and the stiff, almost mechanic way she moved—as if she was a doll whose strings were only recently cut and unused to moving on her own.

Somehow that comparison had an edge of realism to it that disturbed him on a _very_ conscious level.

In his mind, he brought up his first impression of her and layered that image with all the details he had noted so far, reminding himself that too many times he, himself, had been judged by his appearance alone as a 'troublemaker' because of the ratty clothes he wore and the horrible schoolwork he turned in. No one had ever bothered to find out if the reason he wore such ugly clothes or did so badly in school was because his 'family' didn't want to waste their money on him by buying him new clothes and became angry if he did better than their own precious son. So, he decided to wait a while before making up his mind about her entirely.

In the meantime, he managed to start a conversation with one of the other boys at the table about the appalling state of the garden in the back of the main building, which inevitably turned to what kind of fertilizer would help enrich the soil, what kinds of seeds they would or should plant and before he knew it he was part of a discussion about gardening in general.

More astonishingly, he realized as the discussion went on that somehow he had formed tentative friendships with some of the other children without once being called a Freak, having anyone running away and/or making fun of him, and actually liked him, at least in part, for who he was.

Looking around, he thought that perhaps, being abandoned at an orphanage may be the only good thing his aunt had ever done for him; this time around there was no Dudley to blame for being friendless and finding out that though he wasn't as comfortable around the others as Jack, or quite as sociable, or even understanding half the social cues everyone else did—that he wasn't as bad at making friends as he thought he would be.

Allowing himself to smile that stupid little grin for the time being, he politely but firmly insisted that planting some apple trees would be a _wonderful _idea, throwing out words and phrases like 'self-sustaining', 'sell them for profit', and 'delicious'. Maybe they might actually have plans to plant some apple trees by the end of the lunch hour.

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, there were no concrete plans to have an apple orchard to harvest and make some money off of or to keep for themselves but now he did have a couple of people he could have a decent conversation and play games with, having been invited to sit with them for dinner.<p>

The idea of doing a bit of gardening, however, had stayed with him and he wondered if Miss Tremaine might pay him some money for doing the work or if she knew of anybody that would be willing to hire someone his age.

"Mister Evans?" Harry pushed his thoughts aside for another time and focused his attention on the weedy-looking man in front of him who had introduced himself as Mister Grace, the general education teacher for ages 5-10.

"I know this is the first time you've taken any placement tests but please don't worry too much, this is just to help us to know what level you're at. And don't think any differently of yourself if you score below or above your grade level, it happens more often than you'd think. Now, all you need to do is answer the questions on those papers and maybe write a little. I know it's a lot but you'll have a break every half-hour to forty-five minutes. Alright?"

Harry nodded to show he understood. Mister Grace waited a few moments just in case Harry had any last-minute questions for him before he turned around and walked to the desk at the front of the classroom, where he started marking some papers, most likely some homework assignments.

Reminding, himself, once again that this wasn't even really a test—just a bunch of questions to answer on the core subjects he had learned early on, and learned more from his studies at the public library besides, helped to reassure him that he would do fine.

And this time, he had no intentions of holding back for fear of beaten bloody if he scored higher than Dudley. He would show exactly how much he knew and maybe if he did well enough, he would get advanced a few grades or be eligible for some scholarship. Plans to apply to the top universities and get a good paying job went through his mind. Maybe he would even have his own place one day, not just a room in an orphanage or a cupboard-turned-room but an actual house with a master bedroom, his own bathroom, a living room, a dining room, and all arranged as _he _liked it.

Hell, just getting out of Surrey was a miracle to him. He had envisioned an uncomfortable existence as the little orphan boy in Secondary and had slept to nightmares of being forced to work for the Dursleys as their indentured servant for the rest of his natural life. But now here he was in the heart of London—abandoned to an orphanage by his only living blood relative—but one that demanded only that he pass his classes and live to his eighteenth year, which he had been planning on anyway. And behave in a generally respectable manner.

Gripping his pencil firmly and bringing forth all the knowledge he had accumulated in his ten years of life, he eagerly began the test. His lips curled in a secretive smile. _'Yes,'_ he thought, _'easy. '_

* * *

><p>When the Little Winging police officers arrived at #4 Privet Drive to investigate the 'suspicious noises' and 'violent outburst' of one Vernon Dursley, it was to find the residence in shambles; most of the furniture was overturned or cut through with what looked like a fine blade, all the lights in the house were off except for the one flickering in the kitchen, and a rhythmic noise they soon identified as the aforementioned Mr. Dursley's fist smashing into the wall repeatedly.<p>

They stepped lightly and cautiously over the threshold from the living are into the kitchen, knowing from previous dealings with the man that he had a nasty temper whose preferred choice of outlet for his violent tendencies seemed not to be around at the moment. They exchanged a single look summing up their feelings on their part-time employer: fear, loathing, and suspicion held at bay only by the greed in their hearts for the man's deep pockets. They were also hoping, somewhat disgusted at themselves, for the Boy to get home already so Dursley could let off some steam like he usually did.

Officer Bentley, tall and broad-shouldered, a former football player took the lead; "Mr. Dursley? We had several calls from neighbors about a disturbance at your residence…" A single glance took in the destruction that someone, very likely to be the murderous-looking man in front of them, had wreaked upon the house. "Can you please explain to us what exactly occurred here?"

"Mr. Dursley." The slimmer and shiftier looking man beside Officer Bentley repeated somewhat impatiently—his partner, Officer Dearborn. Finally, Dursley stopped punching the wall and turned to them, still with that murderous look in his eyes, causing the officers to shift uncomfortably with blood dripping from his clenched fist.

"That…that _Freak_," Dursley growled, "has stolen my hard-earned money, taken my food, and run off to who-the-bloody hell-cares! _My wife_ had disappeared and I want to know where. The fuck. She. Is!" The officers grimace as spittle flies from his mouth and lands on their cheeks, or eye, in Officer Bentley's unlucky case.

"Mr. Dursley, we have no idea where your wife is or if she is, in fact, missing and hasn't simply left the house for one reason or another—if you could please tell us what happened, we'll be more than happy to assist you. Without any information, however, we'll be of no use to you." Officer Dearborn's dry and unimpressed voice echoed in the space between the men.

Officer Bentley both admired and mocked his partner's ability to be brutally honest and somehow not sound like a complete ass about it. Times like these, especially, when he needed to ask the hard and often volatile questions, he was extremely grateful to his partner.

He almost, wished that he was one of the officers sent to deal with the robbery/hostage situation going on at the regional bank a few neighborhoods away. '_Almost.'_

He discreetly enjoyed Dursley's indignant sputtering at the reasonable suggestion that his wife simply went out to for some groceries. Officer Bentley thought it more likely, however, that she just got tired of dealing with her husband and chose to leave him without a confrontation that may have quickly turned violent, considering Dursley's temperament. At least, he hoped that was the reason why she wasn't to be seen; it was well within the realm of possibility that Dursley simply lost control of himself and finally killed the boy, his wife, son or a combination of in a fit of anger.

He and his partner, Officer Dearborn, shared an exasperated sigh as they spent the next hour and a half alternately calming Dursley down and trying to get the actual story out of him, which was made all the more difficult as he frequently interrupted their questioning by ranting about the Boy, all the horrible things he'd done and how this was all somehow his fault.

The Officers nodded sympathetically and made all the right noises but both knew the man had a tendency to blame the Boy for everything from being passed over for a promotion to having a bad day.

* * *

><p>At the end of the day, Officer Bentley &amp; Dearborn were exhausted from dealing with Dursley's temper and the other less stressful but just as wearing cases in or around the local neighborhoods and retired to the station, spending even more hours typing up a dozen or so reports that needed to be submitted before they left for their respective homes.<p>

They made sure to make the report about the disturbance at the Dursley residence sound interesting enough to warrant what was fast becoming another personal visit in a string of personal visits by the same two police officers. However, they had to be careful not to rouse the Commissioner's suspicion as to the true nature of their visits or there would be some uncomfortable questions being asked of them.

Not that the Commissioner didn't realize or, at least, suspect why they sometimes dealt with Dursley after-hours so many times; you didn't become the Commissioner based on merit, talent or service alone. It also required an instinct for the games and schemes politicians played, not to mention the inter-departmental politics between the officers at the stationhouse, itself.

And Commissioner Adrian Leppard was no one's fool.

He didn't, however, know _everything_ that went on in the station or in their designated patrol areas, especially in the suburbs where the crimes were mostly blue-collar with an occasional robbery or peeping tom to spice things up. So he had no knowledge, or perhaps, wasn't letting himself know of the cause of Officer Bentley and Dearborn's extracurricular activities. Or their sudden cash flow the last few years. Whatever the reason, as long as the two didn't do anything overtly obvious displaying their little side business with Dursley they would be largely ignored by their superior officers.

Thankfully, after all these years they had found a routine that worked for them and as long as they followed it and nothing 'big' disrupted that routine, they would be fine.

* * *

><p>Things were not fine.<p>

Dursley had been arrested numerous times since the day his wife had left him—a fact which was confirmed by the note she'd left for him to find on the kitchen table—for drunk and disorderly. Bar owners and patrons alike had called the police more than once about his violent and sometimes lewd behavior, even the bartenders who had seen and been subject to all manner of drunkards had complained a few times. This, for people in their line of business, was the same as saying, 'this guy's too crazy for us to deal with.'

This didn't bode well for anyone and certainly not for the man, himself, or the two officers who had made a lucrative but unlawful arrangement with him.

* * *

><p>What Officer Bentley and Dearborn didn't know about—and would feel threatened by, if they did know—was of the existence of a few sympathetic individuals in the City of London police force who knew about the two's arrangement with Dursley and had informed a very interested third party about the recent upheavals in the man's life.<p>

Charlene Smith, school nurse at Little Winging Primary, listened with anticipation to one of those sympathetic individuals, thinking that it may be time to implement her plans at last. Mrs. Evans, a receptionist-cum-secretary who had long suspected Dursley of the crimes he had been accused of was positively gleeful about the chance to explain in detail exactly what's been going on with the man recently. As her informant told her about the impending divorce, the missing wife and child, she realized that there was no mention about Harry. When she asked, the woman hesitated for long enough that Miss Smith knew with dread certainty that something had happened to the boy.

"…there's been no sign of him so far; he's been absent from school ever since that day Mrs. Dursley—I suppose its Miss Evans now, or will be soon enough and my Lord, I just realized we'll have the same surname—ran off with her son." She started off reluctantly but then the words came more easily, as if, if she said them quickly enough, that would somehow make her answer less devastating.

"And no one's thought to look for the boy? Ask about him—the orphaned nephew of Dursley's wife's late sister?" Her words were sharp and biting, her tone incredulous.

"I, well, you know how police work is; question after question after question until there's some solid evidence that there's been foul play. And, well, the Dursleys may never have liked the boy—alright they hated him with everything in their little black hearts—but none of them have ever really made an effort to flaunt their familial connections with the boy either, have they?"

Miss Smith grimaced, _'No, they've done everything but call him an unwanted stray they took in who just happened to be related to one of them by blood.'_ "And I'm sure you've seen or heard from someone by now what their house looks like? On the inside…?" Miss Evans trailed off expectantly.

"Yes…?" She answered back archly but let the bewilderment she was feeling at the seemingly random question seep into her voice.

"You mean you've never, I don't even, surely at one point you must have—you know what? Never mind. The point is that there's not one picture of the boy inside the house, not on the mantel in the living room or on the wall in the hallway upstairs. And most damning of all, the only rooms in the house are occupied by the Dursleys, the others beings used as the basement, closet or cupboard. There's no evidence whatsoever to suggest a fourth person has ever lived or _is_ living in the house."

With each word the receptionist spoke, Miss Smith shook with the terrible realization that without any physical evidence of the boy's stay as a resident at #4 Privet Drive and knowing that none of the neighbors would be willing to speak up as witnesses, the police would never believe anyone who suggested otherwise.

'_Bloody hell!'_ Though she had given up swearing long ago, no one ever had to know she still, occasionally, felt the need to curse someone or something so long as it was all in her head.

"Then where…?" She asked absent-mindedly as she was trying to frantically think of ways to work around this new development, not sure she really wanted to know.

"Honestly, I've tried not to imagine where exactly they've kept the boy. Call me a coward but my husband is always away on business, leaving me to raise our child on our own—virtually a single mother—at the mercy of Dursley and his goons, and I need all the sanity and energy I have left. If I thought about all the horrible things that went on in that house I'd be having nightmares every night. I would be too afraid to allow my own son to leave the house for fear of having Vernon or that bully of a son of his get their hands on him. "

Miss Smith drew breath to argue but before she could even speak one word, Mrs. Evans continued on, "Besides, Mr. Dursley has already paid a visit to me before when I started asking questions and I've no desire to repeat the experience. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about?"

The memory of that 'visit' was remembered before being shoved aside by Miss Smith's own maternal instincts, ruthless and uncompromising when it came to the boy she had come to care for deeply, which didn't give a damn about any of the concerns the young woman on the other end of the phone may have had.

"Did the others check the usual places for the boy; Miss Figg's, the playground at the park, the local library?" She asked, knowing she wouldn't be able to convince Miss Evans that she hadn't made the right choice, just the easier one.

She would come back to this line of questioning later when her informants understood that she wasn't just asking for the hell of it; that this wasn't another futile attempt by somebody to "save" the boy; that she had a working plan that only needed as much evidence as she could gather before she stood before the courts to file her suit, and eventually, hopefully, for trial.

A sigh sounded from the other end. "Yes, of course we did. We drove by when we could for a few days and luckily no one, Dursley or Dearborn and Bentley, noticed what we were doing. He wasn't at Miss Figg's, the librarian hasn't seen him since he returned a book last week and not one of us has _ever_ spotted him at the playground _or_ the surrounding park area, before you ask."

Miss Smith pursed her lips as that was exactly what she was about to ask.

"To be honest, I, that is, the others and I, have considered that, perhaps there may be the possibility that the boy is—you know, I'd rather not say." She said, obviously flustered and leery of inciting the nurse's wrath.

Miss Smith's eyes narrowed, though the other woman certainly wouldn't have been able to see it. But Mrs. Evans couldn't deny the anger she heard in the nurse's voice at her evasive answer or the steely undertone to her command of: "Say."

The receptionist paused a moment.

She had thought that with all she had seen working at the building which brought in, incarcerated, interrogated and arrested any number of individuals ranging from the common drunk to the serial killer that she had been ready for this conversation. But no.

She took a deep breath to fortify herself and she spoke the damning words. "We think…we think that Dursley may have finally lost control and k-killed him."

"_No._"

Miss Smith did _not_ flinch from the informant's confession because she did not, for one second, believe that the boy was dead. The child had survived far too much to have simply died at the hands of Vernon Dursley; at the first sign of danger he would have hid until it was safe enough to come out or ran off the same way Petunia Evans did, if the situation had become so dire.

Which made sense now that she was thinking about it—he might have taken the chance to find somewhere safer to stay or perhaps, unlikely but possible, the woman had chosen to take her nephew with her alongside her son?

But Mrs. Dursley had never shown any great concern or affection for the boy, not even when the nurse had confronted her with evidence of abuse. It was only when she spoke about the sexual abuse that Mrs. Dursley even gave her, her full attention; Miss Smith knew that it was unlikely that the woman had not known what was going on with within her household, but she was uncertain as to the extent of the her knowledge.

Wherever Harry was, she knew he was alive and that was what mattered the most—all she had to do was find him.

She refused to let the likes of Vernon Dursley be freed from his rightful incarceration in the county prison because of a technicality. Neither his bribes to local officials nor his threats would stop her from making him pay for his crimes.

Those things were nothing to the nurse who had quietly suffered by the child's side, lamenting the fact that the only thing she could do was provide him with medical supplies and teach him the proper way to mend his wounds, from a relatively mild burn on the hand to some bruised kidneys.

"Miss Smith…?" Mrs. Evans' voice served to bring her focus back to the conversation at hand.

"No," she repeated. "He's alive."

"But—"

"Just keep me informed." She said, cutting off her response with a firm command. "Goodbye." She gently—'_gently'_, she reminded herself, _'unless I want to buy a new phone'_—set in its cradle, no matter how tempting it was to slam the phone down instead.

She had already made a promise to herself to one day correct the situation but now the circumstances had changed; without his aunt, his only (known) living blood relative there to act as guardian, custody may well be granted to his uncle. Furthermore, with his increasingly violent and erratic behavior, according to her informants and word-of-mouth, it would be like tempting fate to hand over the child to him. If ever it was the time to act, it was now.

While she could still cast some reasonable doubt on an 'upstanding' member of the little suburban community; with his recent change in behavior—though in her opinion, it was a reveal of his true nature—it would be easy to have someone _not _a part of Dursley's underhanded arrangement come by to ask some _very_ uncomfortable questions. And once she sends a partial copy of the evidence she had collected over the years to one of the higher-ranking officers…

Her lips curled in a vicious smile. Soon enough everyone who had turned a blind eye to the _obvious_ abuse the child had been subjected to would be punished for their willful negligence, whatever reason they'd come up with to use as an excuse. She would not fail Harry a second time; all those months trying and failing to find some kind of support from the community and school had taught her a harsh lesson.

Just because they _should _help out, doesn't mean they _would_, especially if they're being well rewarded for their silence.

This time, nothing would stop her from punishing the cowards who couldn't even find it in their hearts to offer some food or a kind word to a child starved of both basic nutrition and love; this time, the monsters who had constantly reinforced the belief in the child that no one cared enough to stand up for him would learn the meaning of atonement; this time—

There would be no escape for anyone who had left him to rot away.

* * *

><p>AN: There was some questions from one of my reviewers that I thought would be great to post here bc I realized that maybe some of my other readers may have had the same questions or confusion about a particular aspect of the story.

banelupin: Change of person at the end. But you skipped the denile stage, an abused child who grew up knowing nothing but that life when confronted with the fact will try to deny it since it means their entire life had been a lie. But still slow development into the plot is brilliant.

monki-neko (me): about your comment that he seemed to be taking his worldview changing too well-let me first say that im no expert on abuse of any kind, adult or child, physical, mental, emotional or sexual; secondly, there's a bit of time lapse between chapters, by which i mean that times passes and all im doing is picking certain events that happen in that timeline (which i have created, several actually) so if it seems like he's hating the dursley's and cursing their name before he's accepted he's a victim of abuse, its because most of that denial happens outside the chapter and is ongoing still until the trial (if confused by mention of trial, check out the AN at the bottom of each chapter and/or go to my profile page and read updates), and he's not entirely accepted his situation.

he doesn't want a trial, he hasn't yet confessed to being beaten, starved or mistreated, and will certainly deny it otherwise. when the trial does happen, he will have to face the reality before he moves on and that's a big character development for him.

banelupin: Did I miss something? dudley's attitude is kinda so-so, I wasn't 100% convinced by the explaination but it was still very good.

monki-neko: about you not being entirely comfortable w/ how dudley was portayed-he's about the same age as harry, only a year or two apart, and still pretty young besides. he's still at that stage (not refering or even attempting to base this on medical fact) where he can still be "molded", let's say, and be taught different values and beliefs. also, idk if you read any of my ANs or not, but I had intended and did warn that i would be changing some things from canon from the beggining, didn't I? partially based on canon and my own take on dudley, i've made him "softer", more mother than father-or perhaps, more aunt than moher or father?

he is still pretty much a bully and finds it easy to be tougher, meaner and rougher w/ the other kids. his nature isn't so much changed as skewed through a different light. im developing his character with the ultimate goal of making him that person who may disagree with most or all of your fundamental values, maybe vote against an initiative you'd like to see pass, but won't become the crazy extremist.

furthermore, his mother has a much bigger influence on him than his father in this story-she dislikes violence, especially when expressed physically, though doesn't mind so much if its verbal; she would probably be vehementally against him becoming involved in any criminal activities as his behavior in canon would suggest he's heading toward and would heavily discourage friends, actions or thoughts that would lead to such a path; and the sheer gossop that would ensure is probably enough for her to make an eefort making sure he at least has some traits as a "proper gentlement" should.

finally, like i said his mother has a much bigger influence on him than was evidenced in canon and that directly translates to his different thinking. i will hold onto the belief and build on, that he loves his mother very much and that her opinion, health, whatever matters to him a lot. he follwed his father's teachings and commands b/c he's a little boy who can't honestly or with any hope of winnning argue back effectively or fight w/ his father. his father who would as soon turn on his wife and son, as he would on hsi less loved, orphaned cousin.

in addition, i got the feelings that she never lied to herself; she freely admits that her younger sister is prettier, maybe smarter (but then lily's dead and she's not) and that she, herself, is vindictive, would rather conform than stand out (much, least of all in a bad way), stubborn and jealous of her sister. and that she wouldn't have allowed her son to lie to himself either-if she had the chance to freely raise him as she wished. he certainly wouldn't be allowed to go around and beat people up, leading to people gossiping about her horrible parenting skills.

banelupin: So is this when he is 5? Age when english children have to start education of when he is 11? -Is confused- ^.^

monki-neko: im not exactly sure what you mean about the age but harry is 5 when vernon first sexually abuses him and he's about 8-9 once you get to chapter 5, and will stay that age for more than, about 15 chapters, from here on out. also, in britain primary (elementary) starts age 5-11 which she was forced to send him to unlike years before for kindergarten that she didn't send harry to b/c it wasn't mandatory and taught him, reluctantly, herself. he's halfway through primary at age 8 btw


	11. in the meantime

There were rumors circulating about someone accusing Dursley of child abuse, claiming to have evidence of medical records and photos, plus anonymous witness statements. But worse was the rumor about _some_ members of the local police siding with the supposed abuser rather than turning him in, one that caused too many wondering eyes to glance their way.

But, of course, Dursley wouldn't have been stupid enough to let someone like that keep asking questions and making a bother of their selves. He was good at taking care of 'business', as it were. No, Dursley would keep drinking for a while and make trouble before the thought of losing his job and more importantly, his pay, would get to him and he would straighten himself out soon enough.

He had to.

Or Bentley and Dearborn would go down with the man as accessories in a child abuse case with the possibility of murder and that would not do, not at all.

* * *

><p>Fortunately for the two anxious officers, Dursley was, indeed, slowly but surely drinking less and less and as a result, he was not as prone to being arrested for lewd or violent behavior as well.<p>

However, interested and determined individuals beyond the reach of his fists and money have already set in motion certain events which would cause his downfall; Miss Smith, along with her friends and allies among the various child protection agencies in London had been working for a bit more than 2 years to put together a case that no amount of wealth, influence or threats would be able to "sweep under the rug", as the Americans would say.

The only end result that anyone one of them would accept, after going over the medical records, compiling witness statements and even being privy to a personal anecdote by Miss Smith, herself, would be for Dursley to be sentenced to a lifetime in jail. Hopefully, they could angle for his incarceration to be assigned to a federal institution, but they would take what they could get. All that mattered was that the despicable man pays for his crimes.

There was just one problem: their main witness, the one who—if he didn't show up in court or in front of officials to give a statement—would make the case null and void by his simple absence, or unwillingness to cooperate.

Harry James Potter.

* * *

><p>Harry found himself making friends far more easily than he thought he was capable of and that surprised him constantly, despite his optimistic thoughts from that first day at the orphanage. Besides Jack, he had standing invitations to sit with a few boys for lunch <em>and <em>dinner, and sometimes breakfast if Jack had slept in and missed it. Harry rarely did since he knew all too well what it felt like to survive on only one 'meal' a day or over several days if the Dursleys were feeling a bit vindictive, back when he was living with them.

He found others who shared his love of gardening—without Aunt Petunia around to criticize his work or complain he wasn't doing enough, he'd realized he actually liked gardening. He was friendly enough with a few of the older girls that they didn't mind teaching him how to sew, so he could finally make his clothes half-way decent…or fit him, at the least. And for some reason some of the younger kids even liked him; they always made these strange babbling sounds that apparently meant they were happy to see him and toddled over to him, grabbing onto the hem of his pants, looking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

He always felt a bit frightened of squishing them or hurting them but after the first few times and that one time Ms. Tremaine assured him that, "no, falling on one's rump does_ not_ cause permanent damage whatever Mr. Hillcrest might have said!"—he felt he did no worse than the babysitters-in-training, who messed up more than once and for worse reasons than he did, though not one of them deliberately tried to hurt the little ones.

…At least, that's what they _said_, but they were also being paid to look after the babies so maybe he should check in once in a while—just to make sure, not that he thought anything bad was actually happening, but you never know—because money makes people do stupid and/or bad things.

Case in point: Uncle Vernon + no bonus = a bad day for Harry.

* * *

><p>Lucy had never been abused—not physically, at least—of that Harry was absolutely sure.<p>

She doesn't cringe like some of the others when Miss Tremaine sometimes raises her voice at some supplier on her office phone and forgets to close the door all the way, to keep bored and restless, but mostly suspicious, kids from listening in on her conversations. Everyone was always a bit quiet after her rants against a 'Mister Gregory'—always the same man and always around the same time as when she ordered the foodstuffs for the orphanage.

But she _did_ flinch whenever anyone raised a voice at _her_, which could have been because she wasn't used to being yelled at but….she started twitching, just a little bit, starting edging away and hunching in on herself. It was so slight, you'd have to be watching real closely to know any different.

Her eyes become even blanker than they usually are and she doesn't speak for days after. He's not sure if she's doing it consciously or not but he knows it makes him uneasy; he feels like she's just a breathing, talking doll most days but whenever she gets like that he wonders if she really _isn't_ a doll and someone's just placed a spell on her to make her seem real.

He can never really decide afterwards if magic being the reason would make the whole thing better or worse.

* * *

><p>Harry thinks he understands Lucy and Jack a bit more when he finds them together one night.<p>

They weren't snogging or anything like that, but they were close together—because she was puking her guts out, it looked like. She clutched the toilet with both hands, fingers curled like claws, as Jack held her hair back for her.

In the mirror above them, Harry realized with dawning horror that what he thought was just a trick of the moonlight _wasn't._ That was really her face: blotchy and red and _wrong_, and he wanted to say it was because she had been crying, but angry scars—old and new, criss-crossed her face—and what was left, was melted down like wax.

Right now, she really looked like a doll whose maker hadn't done a very good job, leaving her disfigured and broken; it wasn't just the scarring and the burns, themselves, that horrified him the most, it was the reasons behind their existence that made him question who could have done this to her.

….Or if she had done this to herself.

He knew what it was like to hate himself so much that he wouldn't have thought twice about cutting himself—_did_, in fact, cut himself those few times when he just needed that _release_—or to think that maybe, just maybe if he was too ugly, too much a Freak, that his Uncle would leave him alone—to rot in his cupboard or die, he hadn't much cared in those horrible moments.

"I'm here, Lu, I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere. You hear me? I'm right here…"

He listens to Jack as he whispers those words over and over, just loud enough to be heard over the sounds of her retching. Harry steps back from the scene, making sure to step carefully, so they don't hear him.

He wasn't ready to face this—face them.

He knew from his own experience with Bad Things that even if he had had someone like Jack—like Miss Smith—to care for him and be there, he still wouldn't have wanted anyone else to know. It was too much like giving something of his away, even if it hurt and made him sick and want to curl up and sleep forever—still, it was his and his alone—his secret and something only _he_ could decide if he wanted to share or not.

So he left them in that patch of moonlight and took the long way back to his rooms because he needed time to process and consider this new piece of the puzzle that was Lucy: beautiful and miserable in a way he didn't understand—yet.

* * *

><p>He observes them when they're together and comes to the conclusion that they were friends, if not close to one another. He wonders if <em>he<em> would ever find someone like that, but squashes the little bugger because wishes were useless. And thinks that if they didn't know each other as well as he thought, tthen hey at least still liked each other despite the secrets—or perhaps, appreciated each other more because of them?

He couldn't exactly understand how you could ever like someone when you knew how much of a Freak they were. Did it take a certain kind of personality, maybe, like Miss Smith's? Or did you just have to be naïve enough to think it was only a matter of being one thing or another? Harry knew the truth, or at least, _a_ truth—_his_ truth—the only one he'd ever known.

Being a Freak wasn't Normal.

Being a Freak wasn't something you _wished for_.

Being a Freak….being a Freak meant being alone all the time, even when there were dozens of people around you because they were either so scared or disgusted—or both—that they made a space between you and them.

But he wasn't a Freak anymore was he?

_Was he?_

* * *

><p>AN: Soon, Harry will be contacting a <em>very<em> worried Ms. Smith, who not only needs him as the main witness for the trial she's pushing for but also to know, herself, that he's alright and Dursley really didn't kill him in a fit of drunken anger. Once we get to that point, we'll also be meeting Hermione. Yay!

Question: What do you guys think of the new OC characters I've introduced, Jack and Lucy? What do you guys think especially of Lucy and her 'abuse'? I'll work on Jack later because I have his backstory written out, too, just like Lucy though Lucy's is a bit more fluid—getting some minor but important details worked out.

Question: Does anybody find the repeating refrain of 'I'm a freak' to be unnecessary or does it keep with the story? Because there will be more of that phrase or variation thereof, as he will have to confront his abuser, at last, during the trial and will have to testify. Not to mention that he's not gonna get over his abuse anytime soon. No abused person 'gets over it' in a month, much less years—it could take a lifetime.

Also, just in—hermione will be at the trial, too! I just decided right now because a scene came to me of her arguing with her parents about going to the trial, in support of Harry, and i thought, after he saved her and helped her deal with what happened to her, she would want to be there for him. Hope none of you forgot that their destined meeting _will_ happen and [SPOILER ALERT] the even more fateful kidnapping that turns Harry into a killer!

So, does anyone have any suggestions for the "bad guy" that's gonna be in hermione's storyline? (Info: male, muggle, serial rapist/killer) Suggestions more than welcome!


	12. Freak

It's been over a month since the boy had been seen.

He wasn't at school and had been reported as 'absent' per school policy after a few days of his disappearance, then termed 'missing' when more than a week had passed and people assumed he'd finally run away. He wasn't at the park, sitting alone on the swings, talking to himself as he was wont to do sometimes after a particularly bad day. He wasn't at the Library, reading a book that should be beyond his grade level and comprehension, according to his academic record, making notes and looking up words in the dictionary. And he certainly wasn't in Miss Smith's office at the school, early in the morning, doing his homework there as his 'family' wasn't very accommodating to his needs, academic or otherwise.

Miss Smith had been _concerned_ at first, when she wasn't able to find him in his usual places. When the subject of his possible death was brought up, she was indignant, agitated, furious, but once a week, then another and another had passed until a month had gone by—she felt pure, unadulterated fear.

She spent every day after school waiting like a lovesick teenager, staring at the phone and _willing_ him to call her, a glass of chardonnay held tightly in one hand and the other leaving claw marks in the arms of her chair. Several times she had snapped up the phone, grinding it painfully against her ear as she had answered with a tentative and hopeful, "Harry..?", only to be sorely disappointed and frustrated when it always turned out to be one of her informants calling to give her an update.

* * *

><p>Harry woke up from a restless sleep, sweating and cursing the Dursleys; he still couldn't have a good night's sleep, expect for that one night he wore his mother's pendant to bed and he didn't dare do that again, in case he did a stupid thing like break it in his sleep.<p>

_"You're a Freak." He heard the capital as always and wondered for the thousandth time what exactly she meant by that. She continued, "You can do things other people can't; appear on top of buildings with just a thought or turn someone's hair blue." She looked straight into his eyes as she said, "You can do magic."_

_"You knew?" He asked in shock and disbelief; he had thought all along that he had been able to hide his bouts of accidental magic but apparently not._

_"Of course I knew. How could you not be? My perfect sister being who she was. My mother and father were so proud the day she got her letter. 'We have a witch in the family. Isn't it wonderful?' I was the only one to see her for what she was... a freak! And then she met that Potter. And then she had you, and I knew you would be the same. Just as strange, just as... abnormal." She hissed._

_He bit back the angry retorts he wanted to hiss right back at her and accused, "You said magic didn't exist."_

_"I lied," was her prompt and unregretful reply._

_"Why?" He asked, sensing that she wouldn't speak until he did so. A common tactic that she used sometimes, to trick him into 'talking back to her' and asking stupid questions, which he would then be punished for. How very like Aunt Petunia._

_"I had to. We were and are in danger because of you." He was confused. Why were they in danger because of him? "They were people after you, other Freaks, who would have killed us all just to get to you. You can thank your parents for that by the way; they passed on their curse to you and now you have to pay the price for it."_

Ever since he came to the orphanage, in between dream-Vernon beating him and nightmares of Dudley scaring away all his new friends, Aunt Petunia's words replayed in his dreams over and over again. And of course, he wondered about the things she'd said—especially the neo-Nazi and his followers wanting him dead—but he still had to live and move on from the Dursleys, and that included getting his Normal things in order first, before trying to figure out anything that has to do with magic.

Which included doing well in the Young Scholars Program he was a part of and was doing well in; he'd tested out at being two grades higher than his age and nothing like his previous academic records had indicated—thanks to a family that disapprove of him doing better than their fat, lazy son. Miss Tremaine had told him that if he kept up with his school work and passed the electives he'd chosen—Philosophy and Occult Studies—then he'd be eligible for a scholarship program that would place him directly on the path to University.

A few more years of this and he would be applying to Universities abroad soon enough.

He stared up at the ceiling, knowing from experience that he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. He let thoughts of his very own 'secret garden' relax him from the sense of urgency his dreams featuring Aunt Petunia always gave him; the little vegetable garden out back that was once nothing more than overgrown weeds and dried-up dirt, but now was filled with new seeds and rich, new soil. For the last month, he had been taking care of it, sneaking away in the night to tend to the weak little things just barely pushing through the ground and erecting a simple, but strong enough—hopefully—barrier to keep scavengers from feasting on the vegetables before they were even fully grown.

_"Listen to me very closely because I'm only ever going to say this once: don't be found. Those people I told you about? The ones who would happily kill me and Dudley to get to you are still alive and you'll most likely meet them without even knowing it._

_"They served Voldemort and believed in pureblood supremacy—think of the Nazis, same creed, different blood. Your mother was the first witch in her family, what they call a 'muggleborn'. You're the child of a muggleborn and a 'pureblood', a witch or wizard who comes from generations of them, which makes you a 'half-blood'. The Deatheaters, it's what they called themselves, believed that purebloods were the best of the lot and everyone else was scum. They thought that muggleborns should be kept out of their world and halfbloods were an abomination._

_"That's part of why I changed your surname from Potter to Evans, it's as common a name but most will be looking for Harry Potter, not Harry Evans. I doubt some would have bothered to know your mother's maiden name. Freaks don't know too much about the normal world unless they come from it or their half-and-half, and sometimes not even then. It'll make it that much harder for them to find you. And if they can't find you, they can't find me and force us back together. Understand?_

_"The most important thing is to remember that as long as you're hidden from them, you're safe—alive."_

He chewed on his lips as Aunt Petunia's words came to him, refusing to let him rest _again_ and causing him to think about things he didn't want to think about. Not when he was finally safe and happy and the future was so much brighter and better than before; he was fed and clothed decently, his glasses had been fixed, he was learning what he wanted and and he had _friends_. What did he have at the Dursleys?

_Nothing._

Because nothing was his and he had never had a choice, not as long as he had lived there. Everything was about Dudley. Asking how he was doing in class, even though everyone knew he could hardly tell his blues from his reds, and got in trouble all the time, and _didn't do anything _to deserve being loved. Praising him for nothing and everything. Coddling him when he got so much as a scratch and then promptly blaming Harry for it, even though he couldn't possibly have been the culprit, whether he wished it or not.

Harry supposed that when you had magic, you get blamed for everything—just because you _could_ do something like that even if you never wanted to or really thought about doing it even when you _did _want to.

A bitter smile twisted his face; he would never forget that they'd treated Dudley so much better than they treated him—even if he's been able to ignore everything else they did to him, even a little of what Uncle Vernon did—just because he was their son than simply a blood relative. They _loved_ him because they wanted him and had been prepared—anticipated even—raising him. Harry, on the other hand, was dropped on their doorstep unannounced with only a single letter to explain everything—not much at all and yet more than they wanted, or cared, to know. And they had never loved him or cared for him, or even attempted to because that's not how families were made.

Not in their eyes and not in Harry's. You had to want and care and love and protect and listen to be family. Being related to someone by blood and expecting them to raise you like their own or treat you decently—that was ridiculous and unrealistic. Even if they didn't hit you or yell or ignore you, they would _never _look at you the same because it _wasn't_ the same; you weren't their kid and you weren't the one they _loved_, not really. Duty or government or some stupid social custom made them take you in but that was _it_. Anything more was always more than they could give—or want to—or could afford to.

He was surprised—and dismayed—out of his increasingly cynical thoughts by the sound of his sheets tearing _by his own bloody hands_. Had he done that? Had he had let himself be so consumed by what the Dursleys _weren't _to him overcome the realities of what he had had _now_? He reminded himself once again that everything wasn't perfect but it was so much better than what he had and he knew it.

'_So get off your arse and _do_ something__ if you're that obsessed about it, you berk*.' _

Ah. And here he had been wondering for the past few weeks where his 'voices' had gone with everything that had been happening; making friends and eating more and learning new things—there had been only blessed (boring) silence since that first night at the orphanage.

'_Hey! Watch who you're calling an idiot there—you might be in my mind but it's still _my_ mind. 'Sides, what _can_ I do? Walk around London 'till I find someone who looks the least bit Freak-y and ask if they could "please show me how to get to the Wizarding World, please?"'_

'_Well, why not? Sounds reasonable enough to me.'_

He snorted in contempt.

'_Exactly. Reasonable. One thing I'm not too sure these people are. That Dumbledore bastard left me with the Dursleys didn't he? Couldn't have stayed for a cuppa and a nice little chat—maybe a threat or some to treat me like a human being 'stead of their dog?'_

'_I know they _sound_ barmy, but they might not all be the same—'_

'_And what if they aren't? So what? That doesn't mean they'd be any better. Hell, they could be worse. What if we run into one of them 'Deatheaters' and they recognize who we are—you think they'd let us free? No, 'course not. They'd hurt us as bad as Uncle Vernon—worse, maybe, with magic.'_

'…_I can sort of see why they hated us so much, if you think about what magic could _do_, if you didn't care that you hurt people.'_

A slow blink followed this thought. And then:

'_What? Listen here, even if they did think like that, they had to have known we'd never have hurt them—even when they treated us bad and Uncle Vernon _did_ things and knew we could do magic, we never tried to hurt them.'_

'_But is that because we didn't know if we really _could _and we'd get away with it or because we _really_ didn't want to hurt them no matter how much they hurt us?' _

Harry didn't have an answer for that and the confusion and doubt and self-loathing that brought him kept him from sleeping the whole night.

* * *

><p>AN: I don't want to rush harry's characters development—and of course, it won't all happen in these chapters—but he needs to be <em>stabilized<em> for what's coming and get _some_ of his character solid. And after Hermione and their interaction will be even more character development, for the both of them—at the same time—and won't _that _be fun? (Hope the sarcasm was obvious there.)

*berk=idiot


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